The Wistful Incense
The ink in your well is black as a bruise, and the quill in your hand trembles with a fatigue that has nothing to do with the cold. You are Elara, thirty-two, a scribe of the royal court in Oria, and you are trying to finish the chronicle before the walls fall. The siege has been going on for three weeks, and the air outside smells of wet ash and rot, but in here, the only sound is the scratch...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews