Spindlewheel Stories

To Holy Armiger, ey of starfire and sand, defiant captive, root and blossom of all life: I drank Rowena's potions, as your priests require. It sits heavy on my bones, but the flower of my eye buds without a bloom; a promise I fear won't deliver in my time. There is enough light in the afternoon to make a few moments out of bed worthwhile. Though uncoiling the vines wrapped vicelike around my legs takes some doing. Every day, the distance between desk and bed extends by a small mile. Today, as every day, I devote myself to the arrangements that must be made for your return. Your garden must be verdant, your voice amplified above all, your city faithful without exception. When you return, you will look upon my efforts, and though I may not live to see your renaissance, my children will gaze into your eternal fire and forget the fear of death. For this, there is no cost too great. [Content Warning: body horror, eye horror, mob violence, surgery, existential dread, dubious bodily autonomy] The tracks "Old