The Distant Journey
The fire started in the ink. It began as a smudge, a black tear spreading across the vellum of the Great Ledger, a volume so vast its pages smelled of rot and iron. Elara stood before the desk, her hands trembling not from heat, but from the sudden, violent rejection of her own identity. The ink did not merely burn; it screamed. It whispered her name in a voice that was not hers, a voice...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior