The Faded Masquerade
The ledger on the desk counted out the days in red ink, each stroke a small wound in the parchment. Sir Aldric stared at the total, the number for his sister Elara’s medicine, and felt the cold damp of the Duke’s hall seep through the leather of his boots. He was forty years old, and his armor, once the pride of the northern marches, now rusted with the specific, flaking orange of poverty....
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews