The Distant Blade
The shard in your palm is heavier than it looks, a sliver of black glass that bites into the meat of your thumb with a cold, persistent pressure, and you hold it there in the dim light of the cellar, your breath fogging in the air, while the dust motes hang suspended in the shaft of grey coming from the single barred window. You are Elias, forty-two years old, a scribe for the town of Oakhaven,...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen