Bride of the Blood Moon
I wonder if they would spit at my boots if not for the ring of royal guard at my back.
At a crossroads, a small group of children stands beside a makeshift shrine, the kind built by survivors who cannot afford stone. Candles gutter in the wind, their wax pooling into a single, yellowed mass. The oldest girl holds a sign: Daughter of the Sun, Bring Us Peace. She wears her hair in a single, severe braid. Her eyes track me as I pass. I look back at her, just for a heartbeat, and see that her fingers are stained with ink, the sign freshly made.
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