The Wistful Throne
The fire did not roar; it whispered, a dry, papery hiss that seemed to peel the air itself away from the stone walls of the high tower. It was a sound that belonged to the dying, a susurration of ash and memory, and it filled the cramped, circular chamber with a heat that was not warmth but a suffocating embrace. Silas Vane stood at the center of the room, his hands bound not by rope or iron,...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση