The Distant Threshold
"You are late, Master," the voice came from the shadows. It was not a question. It was a blade, thin and cold, slicing through the fog that clung to the forest floor. I wiped the mud from my face. The rain had stopped, but the air still wept. I adjusted the strap of my bow across my chest. The wood was dry, thank the gods, though my cloak was heavy with water. "Forgive me," I said. My voice...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews