The Wistful Skyline
The gatekeeper’s voice, thick with the gravel of centuries, cut through the mist like a blade through wet wool. “You seek the Spire,” he said, not looking up from the ledger he was scrubbing with a rag that seemed to dissolve into the damp stone. It was a question that contained its own answer, a trap set in the syntax of a man who had asked it ten thousand times before. Thomas Bradshaw, a man...
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