The Golden Myth
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray sheet that turned the cobblestones of the capital into a slick, black mirror reflecting the dim, gas-lit windows of the Ministry, a place where the air smelled of damp wool, old paper, and the faint, metallic tang of fear that had settled into the floorboards like dust. Elias Thorne stood at his desk, a square of silence in the chaotic...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen