The Wistful Asylum
The third day of the fever began with a count of breaths. Elias sat in the corner of the King’s bedchamber, his back pressed against the cold stone, and he counted. One, two, three. The King’s chest rose. One, two, three, four. It did not fall. Elias stopped counting. He looked at the obsidian mirror in his lap. It was a heavy, black thing, cracked down the center like a frozen lake. He had...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen