Sixty Seven
By the fourth day, Callen’s office felt like a lie. It was too neat. Too still. The maps pinned to the walls with careful inked routes, the ordered piles of reports, the solid weight of the desk, none of it reflected the chaos in his chest. On the corner of that desk sat a small carved dragon. Cillian’s favorite. A tooth-mark dented one wing where the baby had gnawed at it. Callen stared at it until his eyes blurred. Fay’s voice still echoed in his head. “She’s left,” Fay had told him, clutching Cillian close. The baby’s white hair had stuck up in wild tufts, fist tangled in Fay’s collar. “A man from the Isles came through, he said Lord River was alive when the hall fell. Zaria hired a captain. Just her and a dagger. She went back for him.” Back to the Isles. Back into Gulshan’s jaws
- Writer
