The Wistful Skyline
The wind off the moor did not merely blow; it stripped the air of its secrets, laying them bare in thin, shivering ribbons that clung to the wool of Arthur Penhaligon’s coat. He stood at the edge of the drop, his boots caked in the red clay of the highlands, and watched the fog roll over the valley like a slow, white tide erasing the world below. Beside him, Elias Thorne paced, his long legs...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 5 Views 0 Anteprima