“Glove.”

  Ebony throne on onyx dais. Stone tomb flooded with shadows. Iron hides among silver. One hand wooden, one hand dark.

  “It’s Lord Glove. You know the title I have earned.”

  Laughter. Beckoning.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  “Lord Glove. Do you miss her? I’ve heard tales of you moping about at her funeral.”

  One step. Kneel.

  “I do not. I grieve for the life she never had. My heart is broken.”

  Creaking weight. Clattering rings.

  “You are stronger than I will ever be. Better to make your heart a stone. Easier.”

  Silence.

  “Very well. Remember your duty.”

  Twelve steps to the door.

  “Fortune fare you, my king.”

  The stone door opens, light sweeps across the room. The door shuts.

  Darkness reigns.