The Faded Paradox
The rain did not fall so much as it descended, a slow, deliberate weeping of the sky onto the grey moorlands of the North, blurring the line between the earth and the heavens until the world was nothing but a vast, indistinct smear of wet stone and dying heather. Sir Alaric Thorne walked with a gait that had long since ceased to be merely functional, becoming instead a rhythmic act of...
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