The Golden Crossing
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a heavy, grey veil that draped over the cobblestones of Oakhaven, a town that smelled of wet wool and stale beer, where the air was so thick with the memory of centuries that one could almost taste the dust of the medieval walls pressing down on the lungs of anyone foolish enough to walk the narrow, winding streets. Thomas Bradshaw, a man whose uniform...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 16 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen