The Wistful Asylum
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the red clay of the valley into a thick, clinging mud that sucked at the boots of anyone who dared to cross it. I stood at the edge of the cliff, watching the mist roll down from the peaks like the breath of a dying god, and felt the weight of my armor settle onto my shoulders with a heaviness that was no longer just metal, but memory. My name is...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews