excerpt from a story I will never write - Jihan Mour.
The war was over. Any surviving soldiers were sent to the infirmary to be treated, and generals retired to their quarters for a well-earned rest. Quiet footsteps echo through the great hall, and the messenger stands in front of the Queen, whose stare is like the embers of a fire, daring him to say anything but what she wanted to hear. She had been obsessed with this day, imagining all the ways it could go. Now she wanted her answer.
אמן על פי ציטוט זה
ערוך טקסט
או פשוט השאר תגובה:
