The Wistful Letter
The rain did not fall so much as it was pressed against the stone, a grey, relentless hammering that turned the courtyard of the Keep into a slurry of mud and rotting leaves. Inside the Great Hall, the air was thick with the smell of wet wool, tallow, and the metallic tang of fear. Sir Thomas Ashworth stood at the center of the floor, his boots sinking slightly into the damp oak planks. He was...
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