Happy 2017! 2016 can go die in a fire.
To celebrate our egress from that hellscape, here’s the first page of Book 2. I hope you like it or, failing that, that it creeps you right out.
A man has died in Lyonshire. A witch cut off his face.
And an Yson lady’s dreaming about blood and bloodied lace.
(The nameless haunt the night but they’ve forgotten how to leave.)
Our plague-men wander Boreas, pretending to be brave,
With hooks in hand and crooked masks to ward away the grave.
(The pits are full of bodies and there’s no one left to grieve.)
But the dead won’t stay in coffins and the kings aren’t what they seem.
There is no queen in Teranis to hear you when you scream.