The Wistful Crossroads
The heavy oak door of the King’s antechamber is cold against your palm, a chill that seeps through the leather of your glove and settles deep in the bone, a physical weight that mirrors the hollow ache in your chest where your ambition used to reside. You stand in the corridor, listening to the distant, muffled sounds of the court beyond the double doors, the clink of silverware and the low,...
0 Comments 0 Shares 3 Views 0 Reviews