The Distant Temple
The chisel, a wedge of tempered steel no longer than your thumb, sat heavy in your palm, its handle slick with a sweat that was not quite sweat. You gripped it with the white-knuckled tenacity of a man who knows that if he lets go, the floor will open up and swallow him whole. Around you, the quarry was a grey, silent maw, the air thick with the dust of limestone and the metallic, coppery taste...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen