The Golden Ritual
The train smelled of wet wool and rust. Elias Thorne sat by the window, his fingers tracing the seam of his coat. It was a good coat. Heavy. Dark. Worn smooth by years of silent labor. He watched the city slide past. Gray. Endless. The buildings pressed close, breathing out the smoke of industry. Inside the station, the air was thick. It tasted of fear. And power. Elias stepped onto the...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen