The moor wind did not blow so much as it hunted, tearing at Elias...

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2026-06-11 04:09:47 -

The moor wind did not blow so much as it hunted, tearing at Elias Thorne's coat with invisible fingers. He stood at the edge of Blackmoor Vale, his white cane tapping against the frozen earth, his blind eyes turned toward the village that was slowly dying.

He had lived in the ruins of the old monastery for three years now, since the accident that stole his sight and gave him something else in return. The villagers called him mad. The Reverend called him a witch. Elias called himself nothing at all. The white deer appeared as the fog thickened, stepping from the mist like a ghost that had forgotten how to haunt. It was wounded, a dark bloom...

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