The Golden Scar
Thorne. The word came from the dark, a dry rasp like sand on stone. You were asleep, or dreaming, or perhaps the two were the same thing in the Obsidian Citadel. In the dream, your chest was smooth, unmarked, a blank slate of skin. Then the heat started. It began at the sternum, a low simmer that turned to a sear. You woke with a gasp, the air in the cell thick with the smell of damp wool and...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima