It was a small, square construct barely larger than her room back at the mage’s keep. One wall was practically missing, and the remains of tree roots, long-dead from the harshness of the climate, clung to the remaining walls and trailed across the floor. The sound of the howling wind was muffled in here, and it felt eerily quiet. She could clearly hear her breath for the first time in days, and her heartbeat.It took only a moment to locate the trapdoor and clear away the brittle roots enough to open it. She changed her boots yet again, from ice-ready blades to tough climbing shoes. It was a long way down, and she wasn’t about to mess this up. As she clambered down the dank and narrow staircase, one hand on the frosty wall and the other holding a conjured magelight, she thought through the plan one more time.The Drow queen started this war because an ancient artefact had gone missing from her court, and she blamed the snow elves of stealing it. This same artefact, she hoped, was the. ”I felt my cheeks ignite, and tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. Soon they’d be bloodshot. My mascara would run. And then it was only a matter of time before I turned into Gérôme’s ‘Truth Coming Out of Her Well.’ With garden-snake irises, it’s impossible to be a pretty crier.Cheesy. That was the reality, wasn’t it? To convince myself I could do this, that I wasn’t just a joke, an impostor, I’d spun a little silk cocoon of self-delusion. That’s why I’d been stalling these several months. That’s why I hated sharing my work with anyone. Why I wouldn’t let Marie put my name up at the café. All this time, I’d been insulating myself from the truth—that I was a talentless, uninspired, and garden-variety amateur. And here they were: the undeniable proofs of my mediocrity, posted like Luther’s ‘100 Theses’ on the wall.I was angry—really angry—not at Marie, not at Peter, not even at Monsieur Boucher, but entirely and apopleptically at myself. I opened my clutch for a tissue, and as I.
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