The Wistful Ashes
The Great Hall of the town of Oakhaven did not smell of wine or roasted boar, as the old songs claimed it once had, but of wet wool, stale tobacco, and the metallic tang of fear that clung to the walls like a persistent, invisible film. It was the annual Festival of the Iron Bell, a time when the community gathered not to celebrate harvest or peace, but to witness the ritual of appeasement. The...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση