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“They’re coming for you. They are, I know it.” There’s a small tavern in the shadows of the city, a place known as The Crescent. The Host is well known by face, a young woman with a lively smile. And that little hole-in-the-wall is a sanctuary of sorts to those of treason and murder, thievery and prostitution, grave robbers and worse. Everyone who enters goes in with the King’s eye on the back of their neck, and leaves with the Host’s. -Disclaimer: This story is posted solely to get feedback, I apologize in advance for any inconsistencies and further errors.-
The shovel sank deep into the soft dirt,
She dug and she dug,
Herself a shallow grave,
Before she turned to the priest who watched,
‘Bury me here, Father,’ she asked of him,
And gave him a generous coin.
‘My grave will be dug by me alone,
And my death shall be the same.’
The priest nodded,
Preaching to her words,
That he had never thought he would ever have to speak,
‘May treason serve you well,’ he said,
‘And blood serve you better.’
