She regrets using the strange iron blade. The serrated edge splattered meat and blood all over the floor. How she longs for her favourite stone blade, the one that would cut through flesh and sinew as easily as slicing through water. That blade is gone, like her island home, burned to ash with her clan.
Not her. Her captor stroked her long black hair and sailed her across a wild ocean to his home.
She supposes she should be grateful. He speaks in a foreign tongue and doesn’t understand her culture, but his body will feed her through the winter.
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alt="Heartwood by R.J. Cannon"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Denied by J.B. Corso"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Cold Recognition by Andreas Flögel"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Winter Feast by Pauline Yates"
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>