The Golden Scar
The iron taste of blood filled Tom’s mouth. He spat it onto the cobblestones. The stones were wet. The city of Aethelgard did not sleep. It hummed. A low, mechanical thrum vibrated in his bones. Tom ran. His legs burned. The air was thick with sulfur and ozone. Around him, the shadows moved. They were not shadows. They were the watchers. Faceless. Silent. They wore the gray coats of the Order....
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen