Havok Publishing

Kaycee Browning


An island filled with caves, carved by fervent monks. This was the refuge to which her brother had fled.
Island of Caves, his message had said. Worshippers pass through the halls and chant. Echoes everywhere. The stonework is hard, but good. It makes my heart feel whole. At night, I crawl into my

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Crossing my arms, I scowl at his gravestone. It’s a struggle to keep this aria of screams and sobs inside the icy wind of my mind instead of releasing it into the icy wind around me. He’d only seen me cry once; I’m not going to cry now.

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