The Golden Farce
The chalice is gone, and you know, with a certainty that settles into the marrow like winter frost, that it was not taken by the thieves who circled the outer walls in the small hours. You stand in the high tower of Ashworth Keep, the air thin and sharp against your lungs, holding the empty velvet pouch where the vessel had rested for three centuries. The stone beneath your feet is cold,...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 3 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen