The Faded Portrait
The heat in the crypt is a physical weight, pressing against your chest, turning the air into thick, stale syrup. You are Elara, twelve years old, and your knees knock together as you stand before the altar, the sweat in your hair sticking to your forehead. The Faded Portrait hangs above the stone table, its surface not glass but a shifting, oily black that reflects nothing of the room, only a...
0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 1 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр