The Wistful Saga
The iron cauldron had been black with soot for as long as Thomas remembered, a heavy, rounded belly of metal that sat in the center of the hearthstone, its surface pitted and dull as old earth. It was not a pot for stew or soup, nor a vessel for boiling wool, but a thing of specific, terrible purpose, a mirror of the house’s own suffocating silence. The air in the small, windowless cellar where...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews