The Distant Metropolis
The candlelight in the great hall of Oakhaven Manor did not illuminate so much as it consumed, swallowing the corners of the room in a velvet dark that smelled of beeswax and rot. At the center of the circular table, surrounded by the silent, stone-faced portraits of ancestors whose eyes seemed to track the movement of the flame, sat Thomas Whitmore. He was twelve years old, his hands folded...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews