The Pale Bridge
The rain did not fall. It hung. A grey curtain of mist choked the valley, erasing the world beyond the stone walls of the keep. I sat in the small, windowless chamber, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and old blood. My sword, a jagged thing of iron and shadow, lay across my knees. It was the only object in the room that did not breathe. I had come here to kill the fog. That was the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 7 Views 0 Reviews