z2h

  Late into the night, under a sky thick with stars, Jess’s bike rumbled down the worn dirt road into Sentinel Hill. The watchtower loomed in the distance, its torches burning low. A few lanterns flickered in windows, but the settlement was mostly asleep. That suited her just fine. She pulled up outside the cottage and killed the engine. The night settled around her, still and expectant. A month ago, she had stormed out of this place, leaving behind only broken furniture and silence. Now, the silence remained—but the wreckage was gone. Inside, the single room had been put back together. The chair she had knocked over in anger was upright. The dishes she had left in the sink were clean and stacked. The bed was neatly made. Wren had tried to erase the signs of her fury, to smooth over the damage. Too late. She crossed the room, heading straight for the shelf by the window. Behind a dented tin mug, just where she had left it, sat a framed photograph. She picked it up carefully. It was...

 I sat slumped against the ship’s railing, a half-empty bottle of whiskey clutched in my hand, swaying slightly with the ship’s motion. The sea was restless, and so was I. An old soldier had sold me the bottle—heading home at the end of his tour. I tilted it back, letting the burn settle deep in my chest. A poor remedy for seasickness, but that wasn’t the only sickness gnawing at me. Sergeant Hale was dead. Not buried, not yet. His body lay wrapped below deck, shifting with the waves, waiting for Stormwind’s soil. Bandages covered the wounds, but it didn’t change what I’d seen. What I’d heard. The spiders had come fast. Too fast. Too many. Nesting deep in the mines, the kind that didn’t need webs to hunt—only speed, only venom, only claws clicking against stone. Some the size of dogs, some the size of damned horses. I could still hear their chittering. I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping the bottle harder. One month. That’s how long I’d known him. Maybe a few days short of a mo...

  Jess slipped away from the mess tent, the warmth of the firepit and the scent of half-burnt stew still clinging to her. Her legs ached from hours of walking—trudging through the jungle, boots sinking into the mud, always on edge for an ambush that never came. She slipped her tabard off, rolled it up and stuck it through her belt, just in case.  Before making her way to the bleachers near the sparring pits, where Harry was waiting, leaning against a stack of lumber. One of Westfall’s stonemasons, he’d come to Pandaria to help build Lion’s Landing—when he wasn’t smuggling in cheap booze for weary soldiers.  He grinned as she approached, shaking the bottle. “Sleeping aid, as requested.” She plopped down beside him with a sigh. “You’re a lifesaver.” He chuckled, handing it over. “Long day?” Jess dropped onto the bench beside him with a sigh. “Another long one chasing pirates this time.” Harry chuckled, handing her the bottle. “Any luck?” “Unless you count trudging through t...

 As promised, I met up with Bracken on the training grounds to go over the basics of sword work. His grip was firm but needed adjusting, his stance a work in progress, his movements tentative but earnest. I moved with precision, guiding his grip and footwork with patient gestures. He adjusted—loosening his hold, shifting his stance. He swung again—still learning, but improving. I deflected with ease, my movements fluid, efficient. For an hour, I drilled him steadily. His strikes were careful, his balance still unsteady, but he showed persistence. Sweat clung to his clothes, his arms trembling from exhaustion, but he pressed on. I stepped back, arms crossed. This was just the beginning, but beginnings mattered. I gave a small nod, allowing myself the smallest flicker of approval before motioning for him to continue.