The Wistful Mountain
The iron compass in your left hand weighs four ounces, three quarters, a precise and terrible burden that you have carried for twenty years, since the day your father pressed it into your palm in the dusty parlor of the old house in Aethelgard, a transaction that cost him his sanity and gave you a tool that pointed not toward North, but toward the source of the enemy’s unnatural fog. You are...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima