The Wistful Throne
The carriage wheels groaned against the packed earth, a sound like old bones shifting in a restless sleep, as they crested the final rise of the hill. Below them, the city of Aethelgard did not gleam with the gold and glass one might expect of a capital, but rather huddled in the valley like a wounded animal, its spires dark against the bruised purple of the twilight sky. Caelen sat rigid in...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση