Of Keen Gaze

The ferryman refused their coin and custom.

Their argued the weather was fair, and the river itself ran low due to unnaturally dry spring they had. He did not argue, but nodded and said they were correct.

They pulled at their jackets, murmuring, while the ferryman sat like a coiled rope on on his raft. He pulled an apple from his satchel. The sound of his teeth piercing the fruit’s skin echoed across the water. Downriver, a heron emerged from the reeds on stilted legs eyed them worryingly.

Beyond the hills on the opposite bank, the din of battle rose.


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