The Wistful Skyline
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a grey, suspended breath against the high windows of the Keep, where the stone wept with the damp of centuries. Inside, the silence was not empty but heavy, a physical weight that pressed against the temples of Sir Alistair Thorne, who sat on the cold floor of the great hall, his armor stripped to the mail shirt, his hands wrapped around a...
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