Foundling
How could such things come to worship him, he wondered.
“Heat has no sway, only the cold that burns, hoarfrost, can defeat them.”
Within the cocoon of solace made by her mother’s hair, the air turned cold, their breath frosted and turned to ice, though, they felt no chill. The slit, pressed closed so that almost nothing could pass through it, left but the thinnest of gaps. The seeds clustered at the winnow of the entrance, the ones behind pressing the others through.
Even darker than his mother’s ebony hair, he could see them clearly on its inside surface scuttling on hooked feet as they came through. Almost as quickly as they entered, they withered, became brittle and crumbled to crystal du
Bab Populer