The Distant Blade
The dream was always the same: a thin, silver line parting the dark air, a hiss of wet separation, and then the cold. Elara Vance woke with the taste of iron on her tongue, the phantom pressure of a blade against her windpipe still lingering in the muscles of her throat. She lay in the narrow bed of her quarters in the West Wing, listening to the wind rattle the leaded glass of the window,...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen