Please, God, give me one more ounce of strength.

This one is set in a world I’ve been writing in for a very long time now, so I’m excited but also a little nervous to share. If you enjoy fey creatures, betrayal, or terrible things happening, this one might be for you. If that sounds like something you'd enjoy, I'd love for you to check it out!

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Skin Deep

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"Gods," Taurean breathed. He stumbled to a stop in the doorway as though his feet had grown roots, staring down at what seemed an ocean of blood — an abyss of blood.

Since he'd come of age at sixteen, Taurean had served as a private guard — first at the university, then in the city center, and finally, beginning just a week past, for Lord Cyril. He'd looked intimidating at all the right moments, an easy enough feat with his broad shoulders and excess height. He'd stood watchfully when there was need of large men to dissuade sharp tempers. He'd fished university students with minds addled by drink from the waters of the lake. He'd even, on one memorable occasion, scaled the highest spire of Xam's temple to retrieve a pet bird flown astray.

But Sanryn was largely a peaceful city. A strict system of justice saw to that. Do-unto-others-as-they-have-done governed the punishments granted the guilty, and it served well to keep the worst impulses of humanity at bay. There had been a handful of exceptions in recent memory, to be sure — outrageous crimes that had caught the public's eye — but they were the outliers that made the norms more comfortable.

Even the fey-wood, for all its legends about creatures both horrifying and beautiful, posed little by way of threat. The wards that laced the king-city's walls had stood near a century unbroken, keeping back the grasping reach of the fey-things that lived within its depths.

And so it had come to be that Taurean, a man of arms well-trained in their use, had rarely had cause to use them. He had seen, in twelve years wielding a sword as his trade, no harm more grievous than a leg broken by a runaway cart.

"Walk," said the woman behind him, but Taurean was staring still, hair prickling at the back of his neck and bile burning in his throat.

He had liked Beyt. The man had greeted him with a smile on the day he'd arrived, offered a biscuit straight from the pan. "It takes some getting used to life out here on the fringes," the chef had confided. "But give it a week or two. You'll do just fine."

A hand found the center of Taurean's back and shoved — and he stumbled forward, into the slick pool of blood. He slid, one heel going out behind him, and nearly went down. It was still warm, his mind noted distantly, and he was leaving footprints in crimson on Lord Cyril's elaborate tiled floor, one after another, as he took halting steps toward the fireplace.