The Faded Chronicle
The ink in the well was black and viscous, a substance that seemed to possess a gravity of its own, pulling the nib of Elias Thorne’s pen down into the paper with a sound like a wet gasp. He was fifty-two years old, and his hand, which had once been steady enough to sign warrants for the Northern Reach without a tremor, now shook with a rhythmic, arrhythmic spasm that blurred the final letters...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews