The Distant Threshold
The rain fell on the slate roof of the fortress in long, silver threads, blurring the line between the stone and the sky. You stood by the iron-bound door, your hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had never tasted blood, only the cold sweat of your own palms. The air smelled of wet moss and old iron, a scent that had become so familiar to you it felt like part of your own skin. You were...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews