The Faded Quadrant
The iron gate groans. You pull it shut. The sound is a scream in the throat of the earth. Rain hammers the slate. It is midnight. You are bleeding. The blood mixes with the mud. It smells of rust. It smells of fear. You drag your body into the hall. The torchlight flickers. It is weak. It is dying. Like you. The manor is cold. Stone walls breathe frost. You are a prisoner here. Not of the...
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