Dead, Mad, or a Poet

 The woman winces at the crunch of boots on gravel, each step an alarm she can feel in her bones. This has been the way of it for as long as she can remember. No matter how often she has wished it over the years, the Story is yet to change. Always the slow crunch of boots on stone, the sound as implacable as Fate Herself, then the shrill song of blades greeting sky as the two warriors take their places. The sound of combat. Metal ringing death in the air. Then finally, defeat. The dull but wet thud of a head hitting packed dirt, and an endless scream in her ears. Her heart shattering anew. This time she closes her eyes against the blade song. So many Turnings have now passed since this Story first played out, she’s lost count. She would have thought her heart hardened to it—that the sight of his head, his empty eyes staring up at the sky and body turning cold, would no longer affect her so. But if anything, it is the opposite. The violence of Calan Mai is like a knife to the apple ...