The Pale Tale
The winter of 1348 had turned the air at the gates of the Abbey of St. Jude into a physical weight, a thick, grey wool that clung to the skin and choked the lungs. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood before the heavy oak doors, his iron-clad gauntlets digging into the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white with a tension that had been building for months. He was forty years old, a man carved from the...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews