found on google images


“Get to the watchtower, the watchtower!” The field general barked. He threw a hasty glance over one shoulder, sending a silent prayer heavenward that his wife and daughter would have taken advantage of the precious few minutes his regiment had gained for the civilians to escape to the craggy, cruel mountains.

Crusted in snow-blown ice and carved by nature herself, these mountains were nestled at the far end of their little trading town and at the very top, with a spire worthy of a church and jagged, barbed points, the watchtower held the ghost of a guardian from an age long ago.

“Sir, hurry!” his aide appeared beside him, a glowing blue transportation orb in his outstretched hand. “The others are coming, but if we don’t have you, we’ll fall.” He shoved the glowing ball into the general’s hands. “Get!”

The general bit back the words in his throat and opted to simply give the aide ad pat on the shoulder as he accepted the ball of light. There was a burning sensation in his hands, even though the armored gloves, before a painful, searing sensation ripped through his entire body.

When the pain subsided, he gasped in great gulps of icy air and looked around to see where the orb had brought him. The wispy strands of whiteness glistened in the faded afternoon sunlight as the general straightened in a mixture of awe and shock.

The watchtower.

It had brought him to the watchtower.

(c) Sara Harricharan

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