The Pale Meridian
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended mist that turned the cobblestones of Oakhaven into slick, black mirrors reflecting the gaslight of the watchtower. Silas Vane stood at the parapet, his boots caked in the grey mud of the lower district, and watched the village sleep below. He was a man carved from the same stone as the tower, broad and silent, his uniform a heavy coat of...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews