The Pale Mist
The great hall of the Palace of Echoes did not smell of decay, but of stale incense and the metallic tang of old blood that had seeped so deep into the marble floors that it had become part of the stone’s own memory, a silent testament to the countless kings who had risen and fallen within these walls while the world outside turned its blind face toward the stars. King Aethelred sat upon the...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 7 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen