The Golden Ritual
The dream was not of the golden thimble, but of the ink; it was a thick, black sludge that had congealed in the well of Elias Thorne’s desk, a substance so dense it defied the gravity of the room, and when he reached for the pen, the tip did not scratch against the paper but sank into the wet darkness with a heavy, wet thud, pulling his hand down into a void that smelled of iron and old roses....
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews