The Wistful Incense
Elara. The name was not called with warmth; it was spat out by Brother Thomas like a seed stuck in his teeth, sharp and dry against the silence of the scriptorium. He did not look up from his ledger, his quill scratching a rhythmic, aggressive line against the parchment. The sound of the scratching was the only noise in the room, a mechanical grinding that seemed to eat the light. Elara stood...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen