The University had stood for an age, harvesting the finest minds of an entire system, spreading slowly across the skies, a sandstone and ivy cancer, blotting out the sun.
For those of us living in its shadow, it was a reminder of what we could never have, and of the privileges of the ivory tower. Our women stolen, as well as our children – and we were supposed to thank them! I always listened to my mother: Never talk to strangers. We ran, and hid in the mountains.
Yet still they came.
The air-bladders on the ships inflated, at a snail’s pace.
Surely they would discover us. Surely.
They didn’t – and we struck, our flotilla silently approaching, the setting sun at our backs and revenge before us.
Stone doesn’t burn.
But books sure do.