Lady-Binx

I take the steps two at a time, so fast that the carved-out windows of this stone island prison, the Spire, blur past me. I am running. Not from someone, or to somewhere- just running. Maybe I do it because I don’t want to end up like the prisoners here- brittle, weak, walking corpses. There’s not much to do here anyway, so it helps to pass the time. I am not a prisoner. The prisoners here are all traitors. I am not a traitor. My mother was. And my father too, I suppose, if I ever had one. Maybe he died before I was born. Maybe he died when I was too young to remember. Either way, he was never mentioned, and I never asked. So