The Wistful Atlas
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended grey mist that clung to the stone walls of the Citadel of Aethelgard, blurring the line between the sky and the earth until the world seemed to dissolve into a single, weeping entity. Captain Elias Thorne walked the perimeter with the heavy, rhythmic tread of a man who had forgotten how to rest, his boots sinking into the mud that was...
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