The Pale Echo
The mud on my boots was the color of dried blood, a thick, cloying paste that sucked at every step I took along the ridge. I pulled my collar up against the biting wind, the wool scratching against my throat like a living thing. Behind me, the sound of the pack was a rhythmic thumping, a steady heartbeat that matched the pulse in my temples. I was alone on the path, or so it seemed, though the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews