The Distant Threshold
The rain did not fall so much as it was pressed against the windows of the Watchtower, a relentless, grey smear that blurred the world into a single, weeping sheet of slate. I stood there, my hand resting on the cold iron of the doorframe, feeling the vibration of the storm in my teeth, a low hum that seemed to rise from the very foundations of the keep. Below me, the courtyard was a churning...
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 1 Views 0 Vista previa