The Rune-Thief's Gambit
The Rune-Thief’s Gambit Snow fell in a slow, stubborn drift over Cobblecrest, the kind that didn’t seem to come from any cloud the eye could find. It floated on a wind that tasted of river ice and chimney smoke, settling on slate roofs and market awnings and the black iron rails along the Winding River. The lanterns of Market Square burned as warm blurs through the flurries, their halos trembling in the weather like candle flames behind thin glass. Featherfoot’s Tales was supposed to be a refuge from nights like this. It sat just off the square, wedged between a cooper’s shop and a tailor’s, its windows crowded with handwritten cards promising rare scrolls, practical almanacs, and “Approved Arcane Texts for Responsible Study.” Most evenings, the shop held a hush so complete Zola Onyeka could hear the gentle rasp of parchment against parchment as someone turned a page. Tonight, the hush was gone. Books lay scattered across the floor like the aftermath of a storm. A chair had been tipped...