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Weekly Contest #322
Evening came, and the women heard the faeries cry. Not from carts with scales and coin, but from the dark of the trees—as though the shadows themselves learned to sing—where voices threaded through the branches. “Mead sweet as blood,” they called. “Grapes that never sour. Milk that keeps youth in the bone forever. Bread that never hardens, never grows mold.” Éilis clutched her cloak. “Do not answer,” she whispered. But Labhraín slowed, her ear bent to the voices. They turned the bend, and the market lay bare. Fruit piled high; peaches glo...
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