The Golden Suspect
The dagger lay on the table, its pommel worn smooth by four decades of grip. Sir Elias Thorne stared at it, the metal cold against the grain of the oak, while the echo in his head whispered a name he refused to say. It was the name of the man who had died in the cellar three years prior, a debt Elias still owed in blood and silence. He was forty years old, a knight of the Royal Guard, and he...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima