The Dying Isle
Image public domain, from the British Library V rollek Isle was wheezing, if an island could wheeze, the dry brown vegetation blowing into Ozzan Bay, haphazardly decorating the webs of the Salt spiders that blocked any ships from shore. The Kouncil would hold the cave tomes aloft, telling the populace, repeatedly, that it was a curse prophesied, but Unlaa knew differently. She had studied the alchemies secretly since childhood, never being allowed to rise above academy because of her gender. But she knew. She didn’t need the Kouncil’s meaningless parchment degrees. The knowledge was within her. The Kouncil had farmed their own land for export well beyond what the small island could sustain. The Kouncil was the curse, not some incantation scrawled by cave dwellers, improperly heeded or blasphemed. A vangar strolled by, starving, confused. It looked at Unlaa and young Pondalo as if they were food. Unlaa placed her tongue against her teeth, making the clicking noise of a lava gull. ...