The Golden Master
The feast is a wound in the dark, a bleeding mouth of wax and gold that swallows the air. You stand at the edge of the table, your hands heavy with the silence of the castle walls, while the candles burn down their white bodies into the brass. The air is thick with the smell of roasted boar and the sweeter, more cloying scent of fear. You are a soldier of the Crown, bound by steel and oath, but...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen