Rista-liehna

Sings-to-Trees had hair the color of sunlight and ashes, delicately pointed ears, and eyes the translucent green of new leaves. His shirt was off, revealing the sort of tanned muscle acquired from years of healthy outdoor living, and you could have sharpened a sword on his cheekbones. He was saved from being a young maiden's fantasy—unless she was a very peculiar young maiden—by the fact that he was buried up to the shoulder in the unpleasant end of a heavily pregnant unicorn. Bits of unicorn dung, which was not noticeably more ethereal than horse dung, were sliding down his arm, and every time the mare had a contraction, he lost feeling in

Sings-to-Trees had hair the color of sunlight and ashes, delicately pointed ears, and eyes the translucent green of new leaves. His shirt was off, revealing the sort of tanned muscle acquired from years of healthy outdoor living, and you could have sharpened a sword on his cheekbones. He was saved from being a young maiden's fantasy—unless she was a very peculiar young maiden—by the fact that he was buried up to the shoulder in the unpleasant end of a heavily pregnant unicorn. Bits of unicorn dung, which was not noticeably more ethereal than horse dung, were sliding down his arm, and every time the mare had a contraction, he lost feeling in

The witch Baba Yaga once baked herself bread out of spiders and liars and red razorwire that was garnished with flowers from the vaults of the dead, and sweetened with lye from a child’s funeral pyre. It was light as the crisp, cracking bones on the fields and as sharp to the taste as the ash-scattered shards that were all that remains of the swords and the shields of the warrior king and his bold bodyguards. In a chicken leg hovel at the edge of a wood the witch Baba Yaga licks the dregs from the spoons that she used to stir soup, spiced and thickened with blood that the dying ones spilt from their widowing wounds. But her