The Distant Crown
The great hall of the Whitehall Annex smelled of beeswax and old stone. It was a scent that clung to the back of the throat, a physical weight that made the air feel thick and difficult to breathe. General Elias Thorne stood near the heavy oak doors, his hand resting on the pommel of his ceremonial sword. The blade was not for killing. It had not been drawn in anger for thirty years. It was a...
0 Comments 0 Shares 5 Views 0 Reviews