TWENTY-ONE
Everything was dead. That much was obvious to Kyra as her footsteps echoed on the cobbled street she was walking down of. Even the air carried no life; its scarce blowing across her face only adding to the already eerie feeling building in the pit of her stomach at her echoing lonesome steps. The place she was had been pretty once, prosperous even. Kyra could see the ghosts of wealth in the tall dilapidated buildings, the overturned market stalls, the abandoned possessions strewn everywhere on the empty streets as if discarded in haste. But the makers of that wealth were all long gone, dead. All that remained of their prestige was a desolation overrun by roots as giant and ancient-looking as time itself. All of a sudden, Kyra heard the flap of wings, a sound so startling in the quite e
- Writer
