The Wistful Atlas
The rain did not fall so much as it was poured from the sky, a thick, grey deluge that turned the cobblestones of the lower town into slick, black mirrors reflecting the dying light of the evening bells, and I stood there, my hands wrapped tightly around the hilt of a sword that felt heavier with every passing hour, watching the water pool in the hollows of the stone until it began to seep into...
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