The Conqueror’s Witch – 5: The Six of Swords – Science

Her ship twirled, giving the illusion of a light but comfortable gravity. It was a month-long trip out to Titan in a ship for one. The ship was huge by flight-founder standards, but tiny compared to what Jazmynde was used to. It would be a long and lonely flight out, with no Jupiter in the way to give her a boost in speed.

She would have to spend the time sleeping. Too much isolation would drive anyone insane, even people who appreciate their solitude.

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The Conqueror’s Witch – 4: Seven of Swords – Futility

This is how most people die,’ Jazmynde thought. ‘They die badly.’

In her office, chairs were overturned and carbon scars on the paneling behind her desk showed the discharge where the invader tried to shoot through the portal, triggering an explosive decompression.

She crouched down next to the body. The woman was certainly dead. Her eyes were staring blankly at the ceiling and already drying out. She was dressed as a technician for the base – purple jumpsuit and comfortables shoes. On her hands, Jazmynde could see the faint outlines of tattoos. The woman’s face was bloodied and smashed. She lay there on her back, head pointed towards the open doorway, eyes staring off into eternity.

Jazmynde tutted quietly and started frisking the body.

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The Conqueror’s Witch – 2: The Queen of Wands


“You are a witch,” Wilhelm said, smiling. “At least, that is what the soldiers say.”

Jazmynde, leaning against her drinks cabinet, smiled slightly. The room was large, yet intimate. Wood and copper lined the walls in diagonal slats and geometric patterns, and the light was soft amber. “A witch?” She asked.

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The Conqueror’s Witch – 1: Four Swords – Truce

There was a gleaming silver sword that lay over his body. His dead hands were knit around the copper-chained grip, ruby pommel snug against the meat of the hands as if it was the only thing keeping the sword from falling off.

He lay in state on a golden and copper altar in the middle of a cathedral once built in his honor. Silence slapped against the marble, amplifying the smallest noise into an interruption.

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