Beneath the Waning Moon
Only my face, whole and marked and alive.
Then I withdrew, leaving him to the dark and the wind and the howling of wolves who would never answer his call.
The pup stirred in his cradle, sensing my return. I sang to him, the last song, the one I had composed in the silver cage when I thought I would die:
"The bond was chain. The fire was friend. The ash was birth. The phoenix rose."
He slept.
I watched the moon through the high window—full, indifferent, beautiful.
Tomorrow, we would run. North, first, to the territories my father had held. Then east, to the sanctuary I had built from Leon's signed parchment. Then south, to the lands I had conquered with nothing but survival.
Bab Populer