The Distant Blade
The dream always began with the weight of the iron, a cold, dense thing pressed against the hollow of my chest, a physical anchor dragging me down through the silt of a river that did not exist in any map I had ever studied. I was standing on a bank of black mud, the air thick with the scent of wet wool and decaying leaves, and I held the sword in my hands, its hilt wrapped in leather that had...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 2 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση