The Golden Mirror
The dream was always the same, a recurring liturgy of gold and rot. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the Hall of Whispers, a room that existed only in the architecture of his sleeping mind. The walls were lined with mirrors, not glass, but polished sheets of molten amber, each one reflecting a different version of himself. In one, he was young, his hair dark and thick, his eyes sharp with...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen