The Wistful Petal
The wine in Sir Alaric’s goblet was thick and dark, staining the rim of his lips like a bruise. At fifty, his joints screamed with the damp cold of the royal hall, a pain that had become a familiar companion, yet he sat rigid at the long table, his spine straight as a lance, desperate to secure a final, honorable post before his strength finally failed him. The Grimoire of Echoes, a bound book...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima