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Submitted to Contest #340
The map was older than anyone could verify. Maren found it in her grandfather's things after the funeral—tucked inside a hymnal, folded so many times the creases had worn thin as lace. The ink had faded to the color of old tea, and most of the place names were illegible. But one, near the center, remained clear enough to read: Norvale. She'd never heard of it. She asked at the library. The clerk squinted at the map, tilted it toward the light, and shook his head. "Doesn't ring a bell. Could be a hamlet that got absorbed. Or renamed. Happens ...
Submitted to Contest #338
She opened the book the way you open a door you plan to deny you ever saw. Not because the cover was beautiful. It wasn’t. No title. No ornament. Just a plain vellum skin the color of old ash, warmed by the hand as if it had been waiting a long time to be touched. It had been sitting—quietly, impossibly—in the returns cart at the end of the Athanor Stacks, nestled between a treatise on celestial harmonics and a pamphlet titled Proper Diction for Improper Nobles. Melindra Everbright had a rule about returns carts.The rule was: do not become e...
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