The Faded Paradox
The quill in your hand feels wet and heavy, the nib dragging a scratchy line across the parchment as you write the date, the third of November, in the year of our Lord 1342. You are sitting in a stable that smells of wet straw and old horse sweat, the sound of a stallion shifting in the dark next to you a constant, rhythmic thud against the wooden slats. You are Elias, and you are forty years...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen