Promised Landsby Dylan Ng | September 16, 2025I saw you last on Hestia’s hillhead high, solemn and waxed in weightpaste,holding the Olympic flare defiantly over the valley—its firelight, bright in marble-star night,falling softly on matted grass,its kindling sparks like fliesin measle-blotch blisters and hivesupon the scarfaced scabland. You found your mother’s ashesin your father’s fireplace,inseparable from the mildew of its flame,so you took it all with you in your torch. It would die with you upon Hestia’s hill. But now, you are upon itand the mob is upon you. Or will a chop-finger handdrag you down to the valleyand claim you as firewood, or worse,will your bark be too bruised to warm any home?