The rain did not fall so much as it was extracted from the atmosphere, a relentless, viscous drizzle that turned the cobblestones of the Old Quarter into a slick, reflective mirror where the gas lamps bled their amber light into the wet stone, and I stood there, my boots sinking into the mud, feeling the cold seep through the soles and up into my marrow, a physical weight that mirrored the...
You are the last man standing. The gatehouse is a cube of grey stone, ancient and unyielding. It stands alone on the cliff edge. Below, the sea roars. It has always roared. You do not look down. You look up. The sky is a bruised purple. The wind bites your face. You are cold. Your body is heavy. It is not the weight of your armor. It is the weight of the silence.
You remember the order. It came...
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