The Faded Root
The morning mist in the lower courtyards of Aethelgard did not lift; it thickened, a wet woolen blanket that smelled of rotting lilies and old iron. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood before the High Council, his uniform damp with condensation that had nothing to do with the weather, his hands trembling not from fear but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence he had been forced to endure for...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews