The Golden Myth
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray veil that seemed to seep into the very stone of the Abbey, turning the damp air thick with the scent of wet wool and old decay. Elias Thorne sat in the corner of the scriptorium, a place usually reserved for the copying of sacred texts, but which had become, in this season of confinement, a sort of private sanctuary for his own quiet...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 5 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση