The Golden Scar
The banquet hall of the Governor’s estate smelled of roasted pheasant and ozone, a scent that Elara had come to associate with the taste of copper in her mouth. She sat at the far end of the long mahogany table, her hands folded in her lap, the brass collar around her neck catching the light of the chandeliers. It was a beautiful thing, cold and heavy, etched with the state’s seal and the...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen