Oops >.<
Anyway, hi! It’s another new Inklet out!
Inklets are a collection of unrelated short science fiction and fantasy stories published by Inkprint Press on the 1st and the 15th of every month. See the whole collection here.
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In a world where only priests make art, she listens as strange noises range outside her cell.
She assumed the authorities wanted to question her about her little brother.
But the truth? Much more sinister than that.
The price for her transgressions? Everything she ever held dear.
A cautionary tale about crossing boundaries, and the power of art to affect reality.
THERE’S A KNIFE ON THE TABLE and I don’t know why. It makes me think that maybe they’re going to sacrifice me after all, but jeans and a galaxy t-shirt don’t really make for sacrificial clothes, so I don’t know what’s up with that.
I’ve been stuck in this room for five hours now—thank sanity they let me keep my watch, even though they took away my wallet, my phone, even my earrings and shoes—and I’ve no clue why they even brought me here.
At first I thought it was Tommy again—heaven knows they’ve hauled him in for questioning enough times, what with his ‘extra-curricular activities’. But last time I saw him he assured me he’d given up the dope for good, and I believe him, and anyway if this was just about him they wouldn’t have left me here to sweat for five hours alone with a ceremonial knife.
I have no freaking clue what they want me to do. I assume at some point they’ll come question me, but half an hour ago I heard loud noises, explo-sions I think, and it’s been silent ever since.
I want to know what’s going on. Surely they won’t mind if I just try the door, will they?
I ease myself up off my seat and inch towards the door. No doubt it’ll be locked—it should be locked—why wouldn’t it be locked?—if it’s not locked I am going to be so mad at myself for not trying the door sooner.
Of course, it isn’t locked. I’m an idiot. But not so much of an idiot that I leave the knife behind.
The creamy-sandy stone hallways are empty and silent. I’d expect that, in this part of the Council Chambers; the detention cells are hardly likely to be a bustling hub of activity, after all. But still. It’s deathly quiet. Even the ser-vers that should be whirring in the walls are silent.
I pad around a corner, the worn stone smooth and cool to my bare feet, and jerk to a stop, slapping a hand over my mouth to hold back a scream.
It’s a body, blood-stained, dust-shrouded, in the uniform of a council guard. What could do this to a guard? They train for years to become the elite of the elite, and nothing can wipe them out, not even the mages.
Except.
Fear ripples through me, an icy cold hand on my shoulder and a plunging suddenness in my stomach. But it can’t be true. And they wouldn’t know, and they couldn’t have brought me here for that.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry and my hand clammy. If it is, I’m totally unprepared.
Unless they left a pencil lying around.
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