The Golden Ritual
The frost had settled on the windowpanes of the high tower like a layer of powdered bone, and you stood there, watching the light die in the valley below, feeling the cold seep through the heavy wool of your robe, a chill that seemed to originate not in the air but in the marrow of your own bones, a physical manifestation of the emptiness that had begun to hollow out your chest over the last...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 4 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση