The Golden Harbor
The iron gauntlet sat on the cold stone floor, a relic of a war that had ended before the mortar dried in the castle walls. It was a thing of terrible beauty, forged from blackened steel and etched with runes that wept a faint, spectral blue light in the absolute darkness of the cellar. Elias Whitmore sat before it, his own hands trembling not from fear, but from the sheer, crushing weight of...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen