The Pale Circus
The fog did not roll into Vael; it pressed against the city’s high, limestone walls like a living thing testing the integrity of a lock. Sir Aldric rode through the mist on a horse that shied at the boundary, its eyes wide and white with a terror that had no name, for the fog was not merely weather but a pale, shifting membrane that consumed those who crossed it without purpose. He was forty...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen