The Wistful Ashes
The air in the Hall of Rectification was not air at all, but a pressurized suspension of fine, grey particulate that tasted of copper and stale ozone. You stood at the center of the circular dais, the polished obsidian floor reflecting your own pale, exhausted face. Around you, the Tribunal sat in a semi-circle of high-backed chairs, their faces obscured by smooth, featureless masks of white...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 3 Views 0 Anteprima