The Crimson Altar of the Mists
The Blackwood Estate sat like a rotting tooth in the center of the Louisiana bayou, shrouded in a fog that tasted of sulfur and old grief. Silas had returned to the house of his ancestors not for inheritance, but for a cure. Elena, his sister and the last of their line, was fading. Her blood had turned to a thin, translucent water, a hereditary curse that the doctors in New Orleans had called...
0 Comments 0 Shares 12 Views 0 Reviews