The Wistful Crossroads
The rain had not stopped for three days, a ceaseless, grey curtain that turned the cobblestones of the High Court into slick mirrors reflecting the iron spires of the Citadel, and it was under this unbroken weeping of the sky that Thomas Bradshaw, the King’s Chief Archivist, rode his horse, a gaunt and shivering mare named Elspeth, toward the palace gates, carrying in his satchel a...
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