The Pale Dance
The bone was not a relic of the dead, nor a trophy of the hunt, but a key, smooth and white as the ash of a burned letter, and I held it in my left hand with a grip so tight that the knuckles turned the color of old parchment, feeling the cold seep through the skin and into the marrow of my wrist, a constant, biting reminder of the weight I had chosen to carry across the moors of the North...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews