The Wistful Throne
The obsidian sphere sat on the velvet-cushioned table, a perfect, lightless void that seemed to drink the gaslight of the chamber, and I watched it with the detached precision of a man who has long since stopped expecting the world to make sense to him. In my pocket, the heavy brass key to the vault jingled against my thigh, a cold, metallic reminder of the weight of my sin, a weight that had...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 5 Views 0 Anteprima