The Pale Tower
The iron bowl sat in the center of the long table, black as a pupil in a dilated eye, cold to the touch and heavy as a corpse. You stared at it. The banquet was a lie of steam and clattering cutlery, a cacophony of silverware against porcelain that seemed to vibrate in your teeth. Around you, the soldiers of the Ninth Iron Legion ate with the mechanical efficiency of gears, their faces pale in...
0 Reacties 0 aandelen 2 Views 0 voorbeeld