The Distant Journey
The mist in Oakhaven did not lift so much as it thickened, a grey woolen blanket that smothered the valley and kept the world small, claustrophobic, and damp. I woke with the taste of iron on my tongue and a white root pulsing in my palm, a thing of impossible, cold luminescence that burned against my skin like a coal wrapped in silk. My daughter, Elara, lay in the corner of our drafty cottage,...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews