The Golden Ritual
"You are late, Master," the boy said, his voice a dry leaf scraping against stone. "Time is a river, Thomas," the man replied, not looking up from the mortar he was mixing. "And I am merely standing in the shallows. It does not flow for those who do not know how to swim." Thomas stood at the threshold of the archway, his boots caked in the red clay of the lower districts. He was thirteen, all...
0 Reacties 0 aandelen 2 Views 0 voorbeeld