The Pale Dance
The morning mist clings to the cobblestones of Oakhaven, thick and grey as wet wool. You wake before the sun breaches the ridge, the chill seeping through the floorboards of your small cottage. Your hands, stained with the residue of charcoal and chalk, tremble slightly. You are the Town Cartographer, a title that holds more weight in the village than it does in the world beyond the hills. For...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima