The Nightward Scale forest still warm to the touch

still warm to the touch

with small nodular formations concentrated in deeper pockets

rendezvous in lamp-lit parlours

snatched from a velvet-lined box in a house already crumbling into dust

It stays loose in her grip as she turns back toward the deck

The Nightward Scale forest still warm to the touchThe scales scrape faintly against each other as we move through the alleyways, shadows bending toward us like obedient servants. Every step is measured, every glance checked but the necklace does not tremble. The spikes hum with anticipation, the black scales catching what little light there is, reflecting it back as warning. We do not speak; words would slow us. The air tastes of rain and old stone, thick with the scent of smoke from lamps left