The Pale Door
I woke with the taste of iron and cold stone on my tongue, the residual phantom weight of the longsword I had carried for thirty years pressing against my left hip where the steel had once lived, a ghostly ache that had become indistinguishable from the bone itself. The air in the keep was thick, stagnant with the scent of wet wool and the faint, cloying sweetness of rot that seeps into the...
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2 Views 0 Vista previa