The Distant Nightmare
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed a relentless, hollow rhythm against the leaded panes of the great hall, a sound that seemed to seep into the stone itself. I stood by the cold hearth, my hand resting on the pommel of my sword. The steel was dull. The leather grip was worn smooth by years of tension. I looked at the door. It was open. The cold air rushed in, carrying the scent...
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