The Wistful Skyline
The air in the Hall of Whispers tasted of dried lavender and old dust, a cloying sweetness that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat. He sat at the head of the long oak table, his fingers wrapped around a chipped ceramic bowl that had been passed down through seven generations of the Thorne line. The bowl was not merely a vessel; it was the anchor of his mind, the only thing that kept the...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 2 Views 0 previzualizare