The Wistful Petal
The iron bit my mouth. It tasted of rust and old blood. I spat into the void, a soundless exhalation that hung in the air like a ghost. Around me, the arena stretched, infinite and grey, a landscape of fog and fractured stone that defied the geometry of the world I had left behind. My sword, a jagged shard of obsidian, hummed in my grip. It was the only thing that felt real. The only thing that...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση