On The Perilous Isle

On The Perilous Isle

The fog rolled in from the sea, choking the cliff and the castle. It covered the boat by the hewn stair. Boats never came to this island. The men on the continent’s shore said the hippogriff had flown five times and roosted presently at the castle.

It was death to visit while the castle’s mistress was there, they’d told Captain Strela.

Strela climbed the stair with the fog so thick around her she found herself crawling. She groped along the castle wall to the gate. It wasn’t locked, of course. Inside, the stairs wound tight in the dark towers.

The sorceress was asleep in her bed when Strela found her. She seemed a gentle maiden: dark hair ribboned all around her pretty face. Strela closed her hand around the sorceress’s throat and squeezed.

The sorceress’s eyes fluttered open—they were black in the gloom. Black, wide, and gleaming.

Strela meant to kill. The sorceress arched beneath her, and Strela felt the embroidered covers stretch as the sorceress’s legs opened. There should have been no hesitation.

The fog lay heavy on the castle. Strela lay heavy on the writhing sorceress. Her hand on that slim neck loosened.

© Felisha Moon 2018


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