by Mary E. Lowd
Originally published in Typewriter Emergencies, November 2020
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Alia heard water dripping all through the city. Every surface was damp, cold and slick. She smelled mold in the air. It came in great huffs as the wind moved. The summoning circle would open around her, and suddenly, mold would be all she smelled. She hated it. She loved water, but not like this. She longed for the open ocean of her home realm, but she’d been called here. To Dornsair, the city beneath the hanging roots of the world tree. The rotten bottom of the world. Continue reading “In the Roots of the World Tree”