The Wistful Throne
The rain had turned the border path into a slurry of brown mud and broken leaves. Elara pushed forward, her boots sinking with every step. She was thirty-two, her hands raw and cracked from carrying the heavy basket of grain. The weight pressed against her shoulders, a physical burden that mirrored the fear tightening her chest. She needed to reach the sanctuary at the ridge before the sun set....
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews