The Wistful Witness
The mist in Oakhaven did not rise so much as it settled, a heavy, damp wool that clung to the stone walls of the Guild Hall and the cobbled streets below. Inside the archive, the air was thick with the scent of dried oak gall and iron, a smell Elias Thorne had come to associate with the weight of his own ambition. At thirty, Elias was a scribe of the second rank, a position that offered him a...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen