The Distant Wound
14th of October, Year of the Iron Crown. I signed the warrant with a hand that shook. The ink bled into the parchment, a dark, spreading stain that looked less like a signature and more like a bruise. My eyes burned. The world had been blurring for months, a slow fade at the edges of my vision that the High Council’s physicians called a natural consequence of age. I am forty. I am not old. But...
0 Commentarii 0 Distribuiri 2 Views 0 previzualizare