The Golden Ritual
The iron of the gauntlet bit into the soft meat of my hand, a cold bite that promised fire but delivered only the dull ache of obligation. I stood in the center of the Hall of Mirrors, the floor tiles cracked like dried riverbeds under the weight of centuries, while the King’s voice boomed from the high balcony, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. It was not a shout of command, but a sigh, a long,...
0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 2 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр