The Nightward Scale forest It lands between two hands

It lands between two hands

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

checking the spacing of the spikes where they sit between the plates

She wakes on the sand with salt still sharp in her throat

rendezvous in lamp-lit parlours

The Nightward Scale forest It lands between two handsThe 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