The ground around the great hall of Greenhollow was slick with ice, a gentle snowfall dusted the ground in a beautiful white, each breath sucked in the freshness of the world and expelled the mists of a long hard day from Osthea’s lungs. The world was quietest now, not a bird nor soul said a word, the night expected nothing from Osthea, not this night and not this time. Small pinpricks of...
A Winter in Words
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