The Golden Ritual
The sky above the perimeter did not break so much as it dissolved, the blue bruising into a sickly, pulsating violet that felt less like weather and more like a wound opening in the fabric of the air itself. I stood at the edge of the containment zone, my boots sinking into mud that smelled of ozone and rot, my rifle checkered and cold in my hands, the weight of it a familiar anchor in a world...
0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 1 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр