The Pale Tower
The ink is still wet on the ledger when the door bursts open, and the cold air of the November street rushes in to mix with the scent of stale tobacco and the metallic tang of your fear, a fear that has been calcifying in your chest for three years since you crossed the border with nothing but the heavy, brass astrolabe wrapped in oilcloth in your coat pocket. You are standing before Arthur...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen