“Wake up, child.”, the cold voice said.
The dark figure stood over the rough brown blanket that covered the child, and the smooth stone slab that was the room’s only bed.
A patina of ice formed on the blanket as he approached. Candle-wick veins, wax-hands — long fingers snatched the blanket away.
Revealing only a pile of rubble, carefully placed.
The figure allowed himself a moment of appreciation at the child’s audacity.
Then he turned and called for his hounds.
spell-sword.com 
“A patina of ice formed on the blanket as he approached. Candle-wick veins, wax-hands” I really liked the imagery.
Thank you!
Poetic prose, love it. I’m following now! Thanks for visiting me so I could meet you.
Thank you for the follow as well – looking forward to reading your stuff too.
I mostly talk shite 🙂 I’m fascinated with your work, wish I didn’t have to go to bed so I could explore more tonight.