The Faded Bouquet
The quill bit into the parchment with a wet, sucking sound, pulling a thread of black sap from the vein of the wall. Elias Thorne did not look up. His hand, steady as a surgeon’s, traced the final word of the letter his wife had written three years before the rot took her, but the ink was not ink. It was the lifeblood of the palace, a viscous, living substance that oozed from the cracks in the...
0 Σχόλια 0 Μοιράστηκε 1 Views 0 Προεπισκόπηση