The Secret History of Vale Sangora XIV

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I visited Zdislav of Laslea many times. Wrapped in greasy sheepskins, lit by glowing embers and veiled in wisps of smoke, he shared his stories. He spoke of fearsome warriors from ages past, clad in gold and colourful plumes, fighting pale wraiths amid the moonlit peaks; of tiny forest folk with cats’ eyes, forked tongues and teeth like needles; of ancient ruins filled with bubbling blood. He warned of horned mountain beasts and lizards the size of horses burrowing in the peat bogs. I listened to Zdislav for hours, my quill dancing on the parchment to the tune of his raspy voice.