The Wistful Petal

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 18:12:57 -

The Wistful Petal

The ink was black. It smelled of iron and old blood. I held the quill, but my hand trembled. Not from fear. From the weight of what I had to write. The King sat on the throne of obsidian. He did not look at me. He looked at the window. Outside, the rain lashed the glass like a whip. I was the High Inquisitor. I wore the mask of white porcelain. It fit my face so well I had forgotten the shape...

0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews