The Wistful Mirror

added blog Literature

2026-08-18 23:28:35 -

The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, cold mist that tasted of iron and old stone. We walked the high road, the one that cut through the moor like a scar, and the world beyond the ridge was nothing but grey silence. My father, Sir Aldric, walked ahead of me, his cape heavy with water, his posture rigid as the oak staff he carried. I was twelve years old, but on that road,...

0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews