the smuggler’s bible

Iskra

Iskra shuts up and slams the book closed as soon as the dark wind starts blowing. It whips the curtains around like all hell and blasts the papers off the desk into a white vortex.

“Dang,” she says when things don’t calm down. “Might have tipped the domino this time.”

But the best part about grimoires is that all the authors had envious rivals. She plucks a document out of the air, looks at it, crumples it into a ball and plucks again.

“Ah, perfect.” Iskra twists her fingers into the sealing configuration. “Poppogarde, you asshole. What a dick move.”