The Golden Ritual
The silt of the Whispering Fen was cold, a slurry of decay that seeped through the thin soles of Elias Thorne’s boots, a physical manifestation of the rot that had settled into his own lungs. He stood at the edge of the boundary, where the reeds gave way to the open, shifting mud, his hand pressed against his chest as a coughing fit seized him, tearing a wet, rattling sound from his throat. He...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews