The Wistful Ashes
The ink on the parchment does not dry so much as it settles, sinking into the vellum like a bruise forming under skin, and you watch the letters of your own name bleed into the grain of the page, a slow, dark hemorrhage that marks the moment you cease to be a man and become a function, a gear in the great, grinding clockwork of the Dominion, which stands not on a foundation of stone but on a...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews