Eleventh Cycle (Mistland, #1)

by Kian N. Ardalan

With the view of an open field, I felt as if I could breathe again, felt as if the grunts and groans of Nedalya and Kolotha previously trapped in my skull had dissipated. A soft and gentle breeze rustled the long field of grass as if grooming it with an invisible tongue. The orange glow of an egg yolk covered it all and the soft touch of grey began to grow like mould over its tapestry.

That was how the first day of the Eleventh Cycle came to an end.

I never did understand that about them; these people’s constant need to put up a friendly front, talk with such high esteem amongst one another, only to turn and feast gluttonously upon the other’s failure.