La Fleur d’Or

Long ago, when the world was still young enough for mortals to remember the gods, a small village stood in the plains between two places humans feared. To the east lay an ancient forest. The outer woods were familiar ground, but the deep forest, where sunlight thinned to nothing, was forbidden by custom. It was said to be sacred to the gods of old, and cruel to all who came after their time. To the west stood a solitary mountain, stark against the sky, its summit often veiled behind slow-turning clouds. Few stories were told of it, for its terrain was deadly. None who ventured ever returned.

The Swamp, The Witch and The Curse

The air in the swamp isn’t just thick—it’s alive. It presses in from all sides, wet and pulsing, like the lungs of something ancient exhaling around me. The rain doesn’t just fall here—it seeps, sliding from the sky like something half-dead, mixing with the swamp’s own fevered breath. It clings to my skin like fingers, damp and whispering, murmuring stories of things that watch but never show themselves.

Midnight in the Meadow

Dirt infests my lungs as the king’s guards slam my body into the ground. Pain splinters through me—stiff bones cracking on impact. The air smells musty and dirt clings to my throat the way sand clings to wet skin. I cough hard, hacking, tasting earth on my tongue.