Your murderer wears a green coat.
High collar, turned up. His unwavering eyes lock with yours from across the bar as he discreetly pays the door fee and enters like a kryptonite bullet nobody notices but you. His shadowy fedora is olive-tinted, matching every lime-tinsel and kelly-painted shade in this sweaty watering hole.
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Markus bounced on his heels as he waited in the line leading into the Cursed Gardens. Past the black metal fence, maze-like rows of statues rose in a cacophony of heroism and doom.
“Hey.” Markus tapped the shoulder of the hulking man in front of him. “You see that wyvern over there?
This venture was supposed to be a pushover, thought Dor Manti as he dodged yet another vomited plume of emerald flame. The great, galloping beast was gaining on him, its maw still crackling with that damnable green glow.
And now I’m gonna die on this stupid backwater rock.
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Had I recognized the emerald droplets for what they were, perhaps I wouldn’t have followed them.
You’d woken me, earlier than usual. Restless, kicking, and hungry for both of us. I’d grazed on a bowl of muesli as I sipped my mint tea, watching the dust bunnies dance in the bright January
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