The Distant Summer
The mud on the moor was black and slick, sucking at Thomas’s boots with a wet, rhythmic pull that matched the thud of his own pulse. He stood alone at the edge of the heather, the mist rolling in from the north like a grey tide, and gripped the hilt of his iron sword until his knuckles turned white. The blade was pitted and dull, a thing he had carried for ten years, its weight a familiar...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews