Adalyn Grace

As Blythe raised her mallet back, it swung from her grip and struck Fate between the legs.

There’s a house in the woods
with an Arthurian table and a
never-ending charcuterie board.
This story is for those
I’ve sat with at that table,
who make writing feel
like magic.

This was spoken by a man who ignored how deeply Signa’s eyes unsettled him—one a winter blue, the other melted gold. Both too mindful for a newborn.