Winter on Fenris

M40, Fenris, Winter Tower.

Ahzek Ahriman's right hand suddenly trembled.

The candlelight flickered across his face. The shadow cast by his quill wavered and spread over the parchment scroll like a phantom, twisting the characters and turning the original meaning of each sentence into chaotic ravings too disturbing to ponder.

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He set down his pen, rubbed his wrist, and turned to look at the candles beside his desk.

For a blind man, whether they burned or not naturally made no difference—unless they could shine as brightly as the Astronomican. Yet since becoming the poet of the Space Wolves, Ahriman had never neglected this habit.

He left conspicuous light sources in every place he frequented. The Space Wolves had no need for them and even preferred darkness, but he did it nonetheless.

Very few people knew that their blind poet left a little something inside every candle or wick he lit himself.

Ah, do not misunderstand. You thought it was psychic power or sorcery, did you? I fear you were mistaken. He corrected his mistakes whenever he recognized them.

Ahriman reached out, grasped the longest of the five candles, and slowly raised it. Wax slid down the candle bit by bit, bringing a faint stinging pain to the web between his thumb and forefinger.

Since losing his sight, his body had developed sharper senses to compensate, and pain was naturally among them. For ordinary people, that was hardly good news, but Ahriman valued it greatly.

He frowned and raised his hand higher, allowing more wax to stream down. The continuous pain came upon him in a thoroughly unnatural fashion. Half a minute later, the wax had surpassed the limits of its original