The Wistful Voyage
The fire starts in the north tower, but you know it will take the whole keep. You are standing on the ramparts, your hand resting on the cold iron of your sword hilt, watching the smoke curl up into a sky that has lost its color. The air smells of wet ash and fear, a scent that has become so familiar it no longer triggers a shiver, only a dull, heavy ache in your chest. Below, the courtyard is...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 2 Views 0 Anteprima