The Pale Banner
The wind did not howl; it screamed, a high-pitched, tearing sound that stripped the bark from the pines and tore the thatch from the eaves of the stone watchtower. Inside, Elias Thorne stood with his back to the door, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had not tasted blood in forty years. His knuckles were white, not from the cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the knowledge...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 2 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση