They only let him out at night. He can’t remember the colour of dawn.
All because he once stole from the wrong house. He, the best thief in Byzantine. Her, the best enchantress.
He once lived like a king.
Now all he has are the echoes of distant hammers, the chittering of those… creatures, the endless icy wastes.
And that night. That long, desolate night, where he must atone for his sins by giving instead of taking.
His sack heavy as mountains. His body dragged across continents. Feet worn to bloody stumps.
Wanting nothing but the rising of the sun.
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