Marrowless Prowler

THE LOST CONCORD

In the Lost Concord, deep in the salt beneath the Ashen Ford, the old muster-halls keep their garrison — soldiers of six banners whose marrow the salt-dark drank the night Varokhaz was cast down. The marrowless circle the ruined council-chambers, light as blown husks, still drilling the formations of a battle already fought. They break easily. That is the sorrow of them; they broke long ago.