There was something subtly off about the man sitting across from me, diligently writing on the parchment using a feather pen. He had already been in the room when I was manhandled through the door by the burly, most-likely-not-human guard, sitting there like a statue in black robes embroidered with gold filigree. He said nothing as he wrote, and every time I opened my mouth to say something, the guard growled at me, and I shut up.
The man just felt wrong, in the same way that you can smell the cold. It felt like I was looking at a jigsaw puzzle with a few pieces missing. In the ten minutes since the eight-foot-tall man with horns had dragged me into the small, cold room, he hadn’t said a word. He just sat there, writing. Continue reading “The Contract”