8 Hour War
“It’s never been done!” The Duke Oravalio shouts over the wind.
“That’s what they said about killing a god before Androx did it!” My cloak billows behind me, and I glance at Mortim.
Jagged Irish wind torments the front door as my family settles into our morning meal. The bruised table Father made from the old maple tree that died before I was born holds cold porridge and day-old rye bread.
Ma sits in the corner with her darning, a shawl over her shoulders. Nana stirs the cast iron pot hanging over the fire.