Ball Run
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The ancient citadel loomed under a bruise-purple sky, its obsidian spires clawing at low-hanging clouds that wept amber rain. Cobbled streets shimmered with iridescent puddles reflecting firefly lanterns swaying on rusted chains. A mercenary in tarnished copper armor pushed through the crowd of silk-masked revelers, their embroidered cloaks leaving trails of emerald and mercury threads in the damp air. Somewhere beyond the saffron-lit bazaar, a bone flute played a melody that made his scarred knuckles blanch white around the hilt of his blade—not from fear, but memory. The scent of black lotus incense coiled around street vendors selling roasted scorpions glazed in crystallized violet honey, an old woman’s gnarled hands offering fortune-tokens carved from ghost-jade. He’d seen cities that bled, cities that burned. This one festered, beautiful and venomous, its decay perfumed by crushed twilight blossoms fermenting in the gutters.
