The Prince’s Boy: 83
83: Kenet
I was sitting up in a tangle of blankets on a sleeping pallet when Marksin came into the tent carrying a silver tray. He set it down next to me on a trunk and I saw it held a silver wine cup.
“I know it is better fresh from the source,” he said, “but…”
“Thank you, Marksin,” I said, and drank it before I could think about it much more. It was cold and thick, and had the scent of heartbreak. But I was now done with tears.
Read the rest of this entry »
Mirrored from Circlet Press: Welcome to Circlet 2.0.