The rain had not stopped since we crossed the border into the grey, sprawling expanse of the city, a metropolis that seemed to breathe only through the rhythmic, wet gasp of its own machinery. I drove with my hands steady on the wheel, the leather worn smooth by the friction of years and the sweat of palms that had known both the cold bite of a rifle stock and the warm, trembling grasp of a...
The mud was cold and it sucked at your boots with a wet, greedy sound that echoed in the hollow of your chest, a visceral reminder of the weight you carried not just in your hands but in the marrow of your bones as you stumbled through the fog-choked fields toward the crumbling manor of Blackwood, where the air tasted of coal smoke and impending judgment and you, Arthur, were running not away...
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