The Pale Altar
The first stitch in the lining of your ceremonial tunic was pulled tight, the second held, the third frayed, a rhythm of tension and release that has governed your hands for twelve years in the service of the Crown. You count them as you stand in the gilded throat of the throne room, the air thick with the scent of beeswax and old sweat, your sword hand raised, the blade trembling not from fear...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews