The behemoth came from space, the size of a city; crushed by its own weight and the gravity of our planet. It took a century for its flesh to rot away, its bare bones bleached by the reddening sun. Strange flowers bloom along its jawbone and ribs; children play in its wide open maw.

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The blood spread slowly across the hardwood floor—impossible to scrub out of the grain, she thought, and of course she’d be the one to—“Clean it up,” the Duke snapped, pulling aside the tapestry hanging on the wall and disappearing into the secret passage without another word.
She darkly wondered what he would do if he ever had to clean up his own messes.

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