The Golden Myth
The arrow struck the shield. It did not stick. It passed through the oak and into the arm of the man behind it. The blood was hot. It was red. It smelled of iron. Caelen wiped his blade. The steel was dull. He had not sharpened it in days. The camp was quiet. The fire was low. The smoke rose in a thin, gray line against the dark. He looked at the map. The ink was faded. The lines were wrong. He...
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 1 Views 0 Vista previa