The Golden Suspect
The ink in the ledger was not black. It was a deep, arterial red that moved with a sluggish, wet vitality, crawling across the vellum like a living thing seeking warmth. I held the quill steady, my hand trembling not from cold, but from the electric thrill of the deception I was about to commit. I am Elias Thorne, a scribe of the King’s sealed archive, and I am thirty-two years old. My sister,...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen