The Pale Garden
The ink on the parchment was still wet, a dark, glistening smear that Elias Thorne wiped away with his thumb, leaving a streak of black across the knuckle. He held the quill steady, his hand trembling not from cold, but from the sheer, grinding weight of the refusal he had just received. In the damp, candlelit cellar of the apothecary on Gutter Lane, the air smelled of dried lavender, rotting...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews