The Distant Whispers
The mud was cold. It pressed against Elias’s boots with a weight that felt like judgment. He stood in the center of the square, rain dripping from his brim, his rifle lowered but not slung. The crowd was silent. They watched him. He watched them. Elias was a town marshal. Or he had been. Three days ago, he had worn the badge. Now the badge was gone, taken by the men who had surrounded his home...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews