The Distant Affair
The mist clings to the northern pass like a shroud that refuses to lift, thick and damp against the stone walls of the warden’s post, and I find my hands trembling as I write this down, the ink bleeding into the parchment with a slow, black creep that mirrors the strange fluid we found on the antlers. It is the fourteenth of October, in the year of our Lord 1347, and the cold has settled into...
0 Yorumlar 0 hisse senetleri 2 Views 0 önizleme