Flash Fiction: The Swordsman at the Promontory

The swordsman is standing on the furthest edge of the promontory overlooking the Whorl. He can feel the spray of waves against stone on his face, with the Whorl thrashing so violently now at the end of things. The sky flickered lightning in a spray of colors, but no thunder is carried on the wind. A woman’s voice calls out through the wind behind him. “It was always going to end this way, Gen. They did this to themselves.” Gen’s head lowers. He wants to sob, to scream into the storm, but d...