The Distant Temple
The feast is a riot of claret and roasted pork, the air thick with the smoke of a thousand tallow candles that have burned down to nubs, their wicks curling like burnt fingers in the stagnant heat. You sit at the high table, the center of the hall, your position marked not by a crown of thorns or a velvet cushion, but by the sheer, oppressive weight of the silence that gathers around you like a...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima