en
Jay Kristoff

The Last Stormdancer

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Your blood-red skies are filled with smoke. Your bleach-white histories with lies. You walk sleeping. Wake senseless. Breathing deep of toxic blooms and forgetting all that has gone before. But I remember. I remember when two brothers waged bloody war over the right to sit in their father’s empty chair. I remember when the skies above Shima were not red, but blue. Filled with thunder tigers. I remember when they left you. And I remember why. Let me tell you, monkey-child…
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W. F. Howes

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