The Pale Exile
The iron bit was in my teeth before I knew I was awake, and the taste of rust and old blood flooded my mouth as the horse beneath me screamed, a sound that was not quite a scream but a tearing of fabric, a rip in the very weave of the air. I am a clockmaker, or I was, in the world where the rain falls straight down and the streets are paved with cobblestones that do not shift like sand, and I...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews