The Wistful Cipher
The door to the holding cell did not lock. It never did, not in this place, not for men like Silas Vane. He stood in the center of the room, a space that was less a room and more a hollow in the world, the walls breathing a faint, rhythmic gray mist. The air tasted of ozone and old pennies. Silas was not a man of many words, but the silence here was heavy, pressing against his eardrums until...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 2 Views 0 previzualizare