The Wistful Throne
The black sap dripped from the armrest of the throne, hitting the stone floor with a wet, rhythmic thud that matched the beating of my own chest. I was twelve years old, and my hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold the iron railing. The smell of the Iron Court was thick, a cloying mixture of old dust, wet wool, and the metallic tang of blood that seemed to seep up from the cracks in...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews