The Pale Exile
The fire in the hearth was a living thing, a crouching beast of orange and gold that gnawed at the seasoned oak logs with a hunger that seemed to echo the deeper, more insidious hunger you had carried with you for three weeks, the hunger not for food or comfort but for the erasure of the memory that had been branded into your mind by the cold, unblinking eyes of the man who had once been your...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 7 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση