The Pale Echo
The first thing you count is the hours, not the miles, because the miles have stopped meaning anything once the white swallows the horizon. You have been walking for nine hours since the magistrate’s man dragged you from the drifts, and your fingers, encased in leather that has long since stiffened into a second skin, can barely feel the cold biting into the knuckles. You are Elias Thorne,...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews