The Wistful Ashes
The ink in your well is black as a bruise, thick and sluggish, and you dip the quill with a tremor that has nothing to do with the cold. You are Elias, thirty-two, a scribe of the lowest rank in the sealed, medieval-style prison of Oakhaven, a place where the air itself is a living, breathing entity that whispers your deepest regrets against the stone. You want to forge a single letter to your...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews