November 2022
Jean-Luc Currie | 25 Minute Read | Volume 1, Issue 6
For the full experience, make sure your audio is on and click the icon above.
Jean-Luc Currie
20 Minute Read
Volume 1, Issue 4
November 2022
Jean-Luc Currie | 20 Minute Read | Volume 1, Issue 6
For the full experience, make sure your audio is on and click the icon above.
Encouraged by their first encounter, Diego went out of his way to run into Helen. He planned his routes along her favorite walks. He wandered to the harbor to buy fish when she talked with the fishermen. And he made frequent trips to buy bread from the Baker. Diego bought so much bread, in fact, that Helen feared the handsome Blacksmith might lose his good looks. “Blacksmith,” she said as he came striding to the door for the fourth time in two days, “Don’t you think your appetite for bread will kill you?”
“Miss,” he replied “man can’t live on bread alone, but if this gluttony proves the death of me, it will be worth it.”
“Then you’re both crazy and a glutton,” she said with mock disapproval.
“When the feast is prepared and the table so richly set, how can one stay away?” he replied.
“Don’t be hasty in accepting invitations to feasts with unknown foods.” She looked at him severely. “The wine might be poisoned, and it could be your last.”
Diego went on. “I would rather die at a poisoned feast than nibble bread outside the hall and live forever,” he said, taking a step toward her.
Helen retreated, keeping the distance between them. “Then you’re a fool as well,” she replied. As he took another step closer she let out a cry of surprise and pushed past him. “The neighbor’s goat is out again,” she called back, ignoring the gate and deftly sliding over the fence. She grabbed the rope trailing from the goat’s neck, speaking soothingly to it as Diego looked on admiringly. She led the goat away but yelled back to him, “Come back for bread tomorrow.”
Once upon a time lived a girl
named Helen. She was the daughter of the town Baker, and they lived in a small village by a large lake. Never still, Helen flitted from place to place—to the lake with the fishermen or the pastures with the farmers or the workshop with the tanner. She was gentle and kind to everyone, and well loved by everyone too.
In this same village lived a blacksmith in the prime of life. Diego thought Helen was the most beautiful woman in the world, but he could never work up the courage to speak to her. When she walked past his smithy singing, he would stop work, sneak to the window, and watch her pass, but he was plagued by thoughts of anxiety and fear. She had already turned down every suitor who had knocked on her father’s door, so why should he be the lucky one? What if he was rejected? So days turned into months and months into years.
But one summer day the Baker’s horse needed shoeing, and Diego felt within his heart that this was his chance. So he finished his work and walked the old horse to the Baker’s house. Helen was just stepping out, preparing for a morning stroll through the country when she came face to face with the dark-haired Blacksmith. His green eyes wrinkled as he smiled shyly. “Good day!” he offered, laughing. When Helen smiled back his heart burst with joy. She curtsied casually and brushed past him, so close he could smell the scent of pine needle and sandalwood drifting through the air.
“Good day, Blacksmith,” she said, skipping into the lane. He turned to watch her go and just caught her stealing a backward glance before she rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.
Helen left Diego and walked away leading the goat. She wandered around the bend, thinking of Diego, and was barely out of sight when she nearly ran into a horse waiting on the road.
“Whoa...” said the rider as the horse neighed nervously.
She looked up. Sitting on the gray charger was a man dressed in black and gray. A handsome man.
“Helen,” he said.
“M’lord,” she said and curtsied.
“How is the Blacksmith?”
She looked up quickly in surprise. Her eyes darted around to see who else might be around. “He’s well...” she answered. “Why do you ask? Can’t you ride by the smithy yourself?” The man looked at her calmly, just the hint of a knowing smile forming at the corners of his mouth.
“He’s just toying with me,” she thought. Then aloud to him: “If you have no further business with me, I’ll be off to return this goat.” She held up the rope dangling from her hand. The goat, bored with the conversation, had searched the road desperately for something to eat but finding nothing had begun nibbling on the edge of Helen’s dress. She gently pushed its head away.
“It seems he’s been dropping by the Baker’s house often,” picked up the rider. “Could the interest be in more than just bread?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Helen replied. “As I said, the Blacksmith seems to me to be free to do as he pleases.” She paused. “Or see whomever he pleases,” she added under her breath.
“What’s that?” asked the rider sharply.
“Ah, nothing m’lord. Now if you’ll excuse me...” she curtsied again, “I’ll be off to return this goat.” She walked around the horse, leading the goat, trying to keep her steps even, not looking too hurried.
With her back to him, the smile faded from his face, and in its place settled a cold, hard sneer. The rider spurred his horse into a gallop and set off in the opposite direction.
He returned to his castle and called for his Chief Steward, his primary source of information. The Chief Steward was an ancient man, a cruel man. He knew everything that happened, paying people to report on their neighbors and friends.
“You called, m’lord?”
Lord Adder looked disdainfully at the Chief Steward. Truthfully, he feared the old man. He feared what he knew and who he controlled. He feared his obsequious manners and the sly trickery that lay behind them. “Tell me what you know about the Blacksmith in the village,” he said.
“Ah, m’lord,” rasped the old man. “He’s an excellent blacksmith. His craftmanship is the best for hundreds of miles.” The Chief Steward smiled.
“And what else?”
“He’s well loved by everyone in the village and in the country.”
“Yes, yes,” Adder was growing impatient, “and what else?”
The Chief Steward looked up. He was clearly enjoying drawing out the interview. “And...”
“Spit it out you old fool!”
“He’s in love with the Baker’s daughter,” finished the Steward with a bow. “They’ve been seeing one another for several weeks.”
Adder sat back in his chair as silence settled in the room. After several minutes Adder raised his head and asked, “Then what will you do about it?”
In the coming days all of the castle’s horses needed shoeing one after the other, and the castle armory ordered new armor and new swords. And Diego, sweating in the heat of the furnace, worked from early in the morning until late at night in the smithy. He didn’t have time to go by the Baker’s house anymore or time to wander down to the lake or time to run into Helen on her long walks. Instead, Helen found herself at the smithy. Although she missed the outdoors, she enjoyed watching Diego work. And so, over time, their love grew.
Several weeks later Lord Adder called the Chief Steward and chastised him. “You fool! They’re spending more time together. What now?”
The Chief Steward was patient and cunning, and he reassured his master. “M’lord,” he said, “we’ll send him on a long journey to separate the two.”
And so the Chief Steward sent word to the Blacksmith that he would accompany a delegation to a neighboring province. They left the following day. The summer gave way to fall, and the fall to winter. It wasn’t until the first brave green shoots of spring began to poke shy heads above the ground that the delegation returned. Diego, although weary from the long journey, immediately went to the Baker’s house. Helen saw him coming from a long way off. She had watched for his return every single day—absence had indeed made the heart grow fonder.
Shortly thereafter, while out walking alone, Helen suddenly heard the clip clop of an approaching horse. It was Adder on his gray charger. She greeted him, and he asked where she was going.
“M’lord,” she lied, “Nowhere. I’m out looking for beauty...and I find it most places despite the black clouds which occasionally darken the sun.” Adder looked skyward.
“No clouds crowd the sky today,” he said with mild surprise. “Surely you aren’t thinking of shadows on a day like this.”
“More than clouds cast shadows,” she replied cooly. A silence lingered between them, and Adder’s hands coiled tightly on the reins of his horse.
“Tonight I’m giving a banquet in your honor.” At these words Helen started in surprise. Seconds dragged on. He sensed her hesitation and grew impatient. “I was unaware my supper table was an unwelcome invitation. Besides, if you decline,” he added, “your father would be sorely disappointed.”
Helen returned home, the remainder of her walk poisoned by the thought of dining at the castle and what it implied. The Baker, however, didn’t sense his daughter’s distress, humming to himself while he baked, and every customer entering the yard received the news that the Baker and his daughter were to dine with Lord Adder that evening. By midday, the whole village knew. Diego flew from the smithy in search of Helen.
“Helen!” he cried out when he saw her, “What will you do?”
She looked at him darkly, and then broke into great heaving sobs. “I will refuse him,” she finally answered. “I would rather die than have all the finery in the world and live as a queen without love.” Diego’s heart leapt, and he kissed her. As the sun dropped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the fields, the goats at pasture brayed their evening song.
The Baker walked beside his daughter as she rode to the castle. Word of Helen’s coming had reached the castle servants, all of whom found convenient excuses to be in the courtyard when she arrived. She entered the feasting hall with her father, who beamed and fidgeted nervously, and one of the footmen announced them to the already raucous crowd.
A long table was set with piles of food. At one end stood Lord Adder in his usual robes of silver and black velvet. Around the table were dozens of lords and ladies Helen had never seen. She was shown to a seat by Adder while her father was placed on a lower dais with a few town notables. He eyed the food greedily. Course after course of soup, fish from the village lake, roast venison from the hunting grounds, and more kept appearing, accompanied by endless flagons of wine.
Midway through dinner Adder looked at Helen and said, “Helen, all this could be yours. The servants, the castle, these lands...”He meant it as a question. It was the question.
She watched the servants creeping round warily and saw the fear in their eyes. She thought of the villagers, her neighbors and friends. She thought of how much better she could make things. How the entire castle and surrounding villages might be improved, and for reasons Adder couldn’t fathom she was tempted to accept. There could be good from something like this, she knew. But what was she giving up? And was it worth it? She glanced down at the table, momentarily embarrassed, caught off-guard by her own indecision. The torchlight danced on the walls as dark shadows passed across her face.
The Baker was far too drunk on the night of the feast to comprehend the hurried end of the festivities and their rapid dismissal. When she told him the next morning what had transpired, he grew furious. He stomped around the house and yelled and burned several loaves of bread, which only made him angrier.
From that point onward, Diego was no longer bothered by extra work or suspicious trips to adjacent provinces. Helen visited the smithy on a daily basis, and he accompanied her on her walks. And so the weeks passed in relative bliss. Summer gave way to fall, the leaves began to change, and the chilly air hung on stubbornly throughout the day, refusing to be banished by the bright, furious sun. During one of their unhurried walks through the country, the two lovers retreated to a hillside overlooking the valley. They sat on the cool grass surveying the blazes of orange and red on the trees below. They could see the village to their left, and beyond that the lake. To their right, some way off stood the spires and towers of Adder’s castle. The sun had begun its evening descent into the westward mountains, and in this moment of contented peace all was well.
Without warning, they both felt a sharp pain in their chest. Each gasped aloud and looked at the other in surprise. “What was that?” choked Diego, pressing his hand against his heart.
Helen shook her head in reply, resting her own hand on her breast. She was confused and scared. “It felt...” she stammered, “...it felt like...like a sting. Or a bite."
“Yes,” he agreed. Although the pain was gone, the memory of it lingered, and they both sat silently, their minds pursuing it, chasing it down the hallways of memory, but after several minutes it receded completely, chased away by the cool air.
On the night of the feast and Helen’s final rejection, Lord Adder locked himself in his chambers and didn’t emerge for several weeks. His Chief Steward was the only person allowed in or out. In the darkness of his tower he brooded, daydreaming of revenge, resentment gnawing at his heart. But Helen and Diego were popular figures in the town, and his own sway on the populace was tenuous, at best. Outright execution was out of the question.
One day a soft knock sounded at the door and the Chief Steward entered. Adder looked out the window at the pale dawn breaking on the horizon. “What is it?” he said, without looking at the old man.
“M’lord,” the Steward rasped, “if you hide here much longer your domain will crumble around you. People are already talking.”
“I am not hiding!” Adder emphasized.
“Be that as it may, m'lord,” the old man continued, unperturbed, “some may think you are hiding and the result is the same.”
“Well, then,” said Adder, “what can we do?”
"There are other ways of handling these matters,” said the Chief Steward. Adder looked at him, sensing something more. “There’s always her, m’lord.”
They spoke several more minutes in hushed tones. Then Adder washed and groomed himself, and the Chief Steward ordered a horse. The master mounted the horse just as the sun rose over the lake east of the village, and he rode off into the forest. “Ride north, always north,” the Chief Steward had told him, rubbing his hands together. “Don’t look for her. She will find you.”
The next day Diego had plans to deliver a new lock and nails to a nearby farm. Helen agreed to accompany him, but when the appointed time arrived Diego didn’t appear. She waited a few minutes and then set out for the smithy. The forge was not lit. No smoke rose from the chimney. Sensing something amiss, she rapped quickly at the door. No answer. She knocked again then forced her way inside.
Daylight flooded into the one-room house. A small table stood in the center of the room. A loaf of bread and uneaten rasher of bacon rested on the table. In the far corner stood a small bed, neatly made, but untouched and unoccupied. She stepped into the house, glancing swiftly around, and then—she almost missed him—he was lying on the floor beyond the table, partly hidden in shadows. “Diego!” she cried, moving across the room. He didn’t stir. He didn’t move at all. It hardly looked like he was breathing. “Diego?” She felt his forehead, which was cold and clammy. She searched for signs of life and then heaved a deep sigh of relief. Weak, tepid breaths emanated slowly from his mouth, his chest hardly rising at all.
“Diego...” Someone softly crooned his name and stroked his head. The delicious smell of fresh bread mingled with a woody scent filled his nostrils. He opened his eyes. There was Helen. She sat cross-legged on the floor, cradling him, her blue eyes staring down, wide and fearful. Her cheeks were red from crying, and the sunlight poured through the open front door.
“Is it midday?” he croaked in surprise, his voice dry and weak from fever and dehydration.
“It’s past noon,” she chided, “All the villagers have been stopping by for their tools and nails and horseshoes while you slept the day away.” She laughed halfheartedly.
He sat up quickly. “But, but...how,” he said, “How did it happen?”
“I was hoping you could tell me,” she said, glancing at the wine on the nearby table.
“Oh no, no,” he muttered, “It’s not like that at all. I left you yesterday evening and returned home, hoping to have a small supper and sleep. The last thing I remember is laying the table...” He glanced up at the untouched bacon and bread. “I must have fainted.” He suddenly kissed her. “But here we are! What shall we do today?”
He paused.
Helen looked pale, and perspiration formed in beads on her upper lip and forehead. She began to speak but no words came out. “Now you need to rest,” he said. “You’ve overextended yourself.”
Then she passed out.
Weeks passed.
Each morning Helen rushed to the smithy to find Diego cold, nearly lifeless. She nursed and cajoled him back to health, and they would spend several good hours together as the village came to life around them. The tradesmen would walk their carts toward the market. The shepherds would herd the goats through the streets. The roosters crowed. The mules brayed. The goats sang. Then, she would fall ill, slowly declining as he regained strength. He would then carry her back home and stay with her until nightfall.
They didn’t bother walking out to the hill overlooking the valley anymore. He worried too much about Helen’s health for even such a short journey. For his part, Diego didn’t light the forge. People in the village stopped coming to him with horses for shoeing or orders for nails and tools. They passed, stealing sad, furtive glances at the house of the Blacksmith and the unfortunate couple inside. Diego hardly noticed. The constant cycle of illness and recovery began to take its toll. His cheeks, once full and vibrant, sunk into his skull. His hair, once dark and rich, stiffened into brittle paper-like threads. Helen, too, lost her girlish luster.
On one of her morning visits, Diego opened his eyes, which were dim and full of sadness. He seemed about to say something. “What?” asked Helen. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer. He looked out the open door at the sunrise painting the eastern horizon purple and orange. He looked back at her for several moments, not saying anything. “Should I tell her?” he thought. Then he sat up and forced a smile. “Nothing...” he murmured, “nothing...I’ll tell you another time,” and he leaned forward and kissed her. They spent the remainder of that morning together. While Diego grew visibly stronger, Helen declined. By noon she was too tired to stand, and Diego carried her home, sitting by her bedside and holding damp, cool cloths against her flushed forehead. Night came rapidly, and Diego trudged wearily homeward.
He rode hard all through that day, not giving his poor horse rest. He rode until dusky light filtered through the tangle of dark, leering sycamores and time-hardened oaks. But time takes its toll, and by evening he was doubting the sanity of his mission, cursing the Chief Steward and his own rashness, when suddenly a broad path opened before him lined with trees that gnarled and bent and twisted grotesquely to form an arch. The light was fading quickly. The horse, tired from the long journey and sensing something amiss, balked, pawing the ground and snorting. It began to back away when Adder struck it, cursing the animal and urging it forward under the sagging trees. He rode at a slow walk, and eventually the dark archway opened into a small clearing. The air was thick and heavy despite the open canopy above him.
In the middle of the clearing stood a structure. It looked like an ancient temple made of white, smooth stone with a roof of deep, dark blue. An black doorway yawned open, facing Adder and the clearing. No light emanated from the entrance. He dismounted and walked further in, leading the anxious horse. His boots felt heavy, and he had difficulty keeping his eyes open. Then he remembered no more.
He awoke in a wide, spacious room. Rich tapestries hung on the wall depicting battle scenes and castles or knights in armor. In one, a small boy stabbed a stone with a large sword. Or was he pulling it out? Large trees stood at one end of the room. “Is that the forest?” thought Adder. He blinked to make sure it was real. Then a woman rose from the chair opposite him. He didn’t even notice her until she moved.
Regaining his composure, he observed her. She was neither old nor young. Her hair and eyes were jet black, and she wore a black silken, semi-transparent gown. Her movements were smooth and swift, and light seemed to bend and bounce around her rather than fall on her. Then she spoke.
“Welcome, Lord Adder.”
Did he sense sarcasm in her voice?
“M’lady,” he said, “I expected a witch but find...well...what...who are you?”
“I have been called many things,” she said. “Viviane, Nimue, the Lady of the Lake. I am a woman of many years, of many lives. I was present when Arthur sat on his throne, and I will be there when Merlin finally awakes from his deep imprisonment.” Her dark eyes locked with his, and he looked quickly away. “You are here because you are vain, arrogant, and offended.” Adder shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “The maiden in the village rejected you for another, and you wish them to suffer.”
He nodded, and she continued. “I can do the thing you ask, but it carries a price.”
“Name the cost!” he blurted out, “and I’ll willingly pay it!”
She laughed. “You have only one thing I need. No, not gold or land or material wealth.”
“Anything!” he repeated.
“Time,” she said. “Youth. Yes, life for life. For each life you seek to ruin, I will take ten years from your own.”
He recalled the events from the feast and the solitude of his chambers. He thought of his servants, who whispered about their master’s rejection. He thought of the Blacksmith, and something hot and angry coiled, twisted, and writhed in his chest. His cheeks burned and he felt the blood rush to his temples. “Do it,” he hissed.
Viviane walked to a large side cupboard tucked against the wall and pulled out a silver chalice filled with clear liquid. She returned with the chalice and a small knife. Holding out both to Adder she said, “Prick your finger and let fall a single drop of blood into the cup.”
He did as she said. As soon as it touched the surface the entire mixture shifted to a poisonous, cloudy yellow. He handed it back and waited. She held it out in front of her with both hands. The long, translucent sleeves of her gown cascaded off her ivory arms, and she began to chant:
Two decades’ worth for dark-done deeds,
Life for life, the cruel toll,
To seal the curse, by him who bleeds,
Borne of jealousy, pride, and greed,
Ten years a piece, each silent soul.
Two star-crossed lovers, young and fair,
Let bitter draft, this snake-bit fate,
So blight the lover’s smallest care—
For her, his presence pois’nous bane,
For him, distance yields fatal same.
She finished her chant, raised the sickly yellow mixture to her lips, and drained the cup in a single swallow.
At that moment three things happened. First, Viviane looked younger, more beautiful, more terrible. At the same time, Adder felt something drain out of himself, like he was more tired and worn. But the third thing happened far, far away on a sunny hillside outside a village where two lovers sat contentedly surveying a peaceful valley below them. A cold shiver ran through them both.
The next morning Helen arrived at the Diego’s house as usual, but he wasn’t there. The house was abandoned. Thinking he might have tried for their old hill, she set off in that direction. What had he not told her yesterday? Her mind raced through a hundred possibilities as she walked. Weaker than she had been, the exercise rapidly fatigued her, and she stopped to rest. She sat, breathing heavily. Then it dawned on her, and she broke into a wobbly run. “Of course! Of course!” she chided herself, “He thinks he knows how to fix this...”
She sped up, worried she had already wasted too much time. But her legs were weak, her breathing came in belabored gasps, and she sought to suppress sobs. What if she was too late? What if today was the day when she didn’t make it in time? She fell, caught herself on her hands and knees and tore her dress. She lingered on the ground for a moment, sobbing and coughing. Wiping away the tears streaming down her face, she stood up and set off again. Not noticing the trees or the rising sunlight, she ran wildly, blindly crashing up the path, which began to rise steeply. Her legs burned with the effort and a cramp formed in her side.
Then, near the path’s end, where it broke out in the long, open hillside leading to the castle, she saw him lying on the ground at the forest’s edge. Rushing to the crumpled figure, she fell to the ground next to his emaciated form, a shadow of the strong blacksmith that once had been. In her weakened state there was no hope of moving him, and so she waited and cried, stroking his hair and face, until she ran out of tears.
After what seemed an eternity, he opened his eyes. The great, green eyes peered up into hers, and in a soft voice he asked, “Have I died, then?” She bent down and kissed his forehead in reply. They sat for a while longer, saying nothing. The fir trees swayed in the breeze, and the sun poked from behind a turret at the castle. Below the villagers on the cart road weaved toward the castle, livestock grazed on the surrounding hills, and nearby the wind gently stirred the leaves of grass.
They settled there in the shade of the forest—she growing weaker, he growing stronger, as the sun rose higher. After a while he said “Helen, I need to tell you something...” His tone of voice worried her. “Several weeks ago, when this all first began, in its first few days, actually, I had a dream. A woman appeared in the dream, beautiful and terrible. She looked cold and dark as midnight in winter but still radiated life and warmth...It’s hard to explain. I didn’t dare touch her, but she reached out and touched me and said, ‘If you stay with her, she will die.’ I tried to say something, but no words came out . She went on, ‘If you want answers, seek Lord Adder.’ Then it melted away and I woke up. So each night I left you sick and feverish at your house, determined that it would be the last time I saw you. But I could never do it...I could never bring myself to go.”
“Don’t leave,” she murmured, grabbing one of his hands in both of hers and kissing it repeatedly. Then she laid her head on his broad chest. She was fading quickly.
By the time he made it to the castle gates, the sun was touching the tops of the western mountains. The porter recognized the Blacksmith and saw the limp bundle in his arms. He ushered them in through the gates, his kind eyes following after them, full of worry and foreboding. Helen didn’t look as if she would last much longer.
Yelling at a passerby, Diego said firmly, “Get me Lord Adder!” The footman stared. Diego’s eyes blazed. “Go!” he barked. The footman scampered away. Diego gently laid Helen on the cobbled courtyard. Someone brought a bucket and cloth. Another brought a cup of weak wine. The townspeople who hadn’t yet left for home waited and watched. They stood in small groups around the courtyard, whispering and looking at the Blacksmith on his knees kneeling before the woman he loved, her white dress dirty and torn. Diego dabbed her forehead and tried to get her to take the wine. Then the door opened.
“Where is Adder?” bellowed Diego.
“Lord Adder,” corrected the Chief Steward. “And what business do you have with him at this late hour?” he said, glancing down at Helen contemptuously.
In a flash, Diego was up and lunged at the old man, but the distance was too great. A guard by the door stepped forward and swung the shaft of his pike around, landing a blow on the side of Diego’s head. He toppled to the ground. As he lay there he heard Helen’s rapid, shallow breathing. A minute passed. He crawled to her side, leaned over, and kissed her. Looking around for a familiar face, he saw a dairy farmer who lived in the village. “My good man,” he said quietly, “see she gets home safely to her father.” The farmer nodded.
Diego climbed unsteadily to his feet and stepped toward the Chief Steward, who retreated a step and looked for the guards. But Diego said quietly, “A private word with Adder and this will be settled.” The old man eyed him suspiciously, then disappeared inside. Meanwhile the farmer gathered up the girl, placing her on the bed of hay in the cart. Wary of the darkness and her fragile state, he set out. Then the Chief Steward emerged and motioned Diego inside.
Once inside Diego saw Adder and temporarily forgot his anger. The man in front of him was not the man he knew. This man looked older, and Diego thought he glimpsed, for the briefest of moments, a look of pity behind his black eyes.
“What have you done?” asked Diego.
“What have I done?” hissed Adder. “What have I done? Do you think you're only one who suffers? What matters now, Blacksmith,” he spit this last word out, “is what you will do.”
“Is it true?” asked Diego bitterly, "that she dies if I stay with her?”
Adder said nothing.
A short time later a rider slipped out of the castle’s northern gate. He had no saddlebags or provisions one would expect from someone setting out on a journey. He turned and looked eastward for a long moment trying to pierce the darkness, trying to see an old dairy cart trundling along the road. Then he spurred the horse north into the forest.
The horse returned to to the castle the next day, riderless.
November 2022
Matt Hartley | 15 Minute Read | Volume 1. Issue 5.
Jean-Luc Currie
25 Minute Read
Volume 1, Issue 6
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