The Pale Tale
The loom stood in the center of the hall like a wooden skeleton, its threads taut and trembling in the draft that seeped under the heavy oak door. Elara sat before it, her fingers moving with a mechanical precision that belied the chaos in her chest. She was a weaver in the household of Lord Blackwood, a position of modest respect, yet one that felt increasingly like a cage. The tapestry she...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 4 Views 0 Anteprima