The Wistful Show

added blog Literature

2026-08-21 00:36:57 -

The Wistful Show

The rain tasted of iron and old blood. I was bleeding from the scalp. A long, red streak ran down my cheek, mixing with the mud that caked my boots. My sword, a jagged piece of scrap metal I had forged myself in a blackened pit, hung low in my hand. It was heavy. Too heavy for a man who had not eaten in three days. But I held it. I had to. Across the clearing, the Warden stood. He was a tall...

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