The Golden Maze
My hands were already black with coal dust when the Elder’s voice cracked, splitting the morning air like a dry branch. I was twelve. I was Burkhard Braun, falconer to a minor lord who owed me nothing but his silence, and I was loading the winter stores before the solstice. The valley was cut like bread, steep and exposed, the humidity ruining the film of my skin, making the stone walls sweat....
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews