The Faded Masquerade
The bell tolls not for the hour but for the breaking of the bone, a sound that enters your skull before it reaches your ears, vibrating in the marrow of your teeth and the hollows of your chest where the air has turned thin and cold with the scent of wet ash and dying embers. You stand at the center of the great hall, the floor beneath your boots slick with the condensation of a hundred weeping...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 6 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση