The Golden Scar
The mortar was stone, cold and heavy in Elias Thorne’s hands, and the pestle moved in a rhythm that had worn the groove deep over thirty years of border service. He ground the dried moonwort with a force that ached in his knuckles, the brittle stems crumbling into a fine, golden dust that smelled of rain on hot pavement and old blood. The kitchen was damp, the fog pressing against the single...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews