The Pale Bridge
The rain in the valley did not fall; it hung, a thick gray mist that soaked the stone and the men who guarded it. Elias Thorne stood at the tower window, his hands gripping the iron bar until his knuckles turned white. He was thirty-two, a sergeant in the lord’s guard, and he had a debt to pay that no coin could settle. His son, little Thomas, lay in the room below, burning with a fever that...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews