The Golden Ritual
The gilded hall of the Duke of Aethelgard was a cathedral of suffocating opulence, where the air hung thick with the scent of beeswax and the metallic tang of old fear, and in the center of the polished obsidian floor, Sir Julian Thorne stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the trembling hand of the young knight who had just stepped into the ring. Julian, forty-five years old and worn to the bone...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 2 Views 0 Anteprima