The Distant Metropolis
The ink is still wet on the ledger, Elias, and it smells of iron and old blood. You look up from the desk, the quill trembling in your hand, and find your mentor, old Silas, watching you from the shadows of the archive. He does not speak. He only points to the page, where the name of a citizen who vanished three years ago has been crossed out, not with ink, but with a scratch so deep it has...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen