The Wistful Saga
The ink was already moving. I watched it creep past the crook of my elbow, a dark vein spreading under the skin of my forearm. It started three days ago, on the night of the riot, when I broke the window of the magistrate’s office to free the men inside. The arrest warrant for my own name had been printed on heavy, blue-tinged paper. When I held it, the wet ink soaked through the paper and into...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews