The Faded Road
The castle of Aethelgard did not stand so much as it hovered, a gray silhouette against the bruised twilight of the Scottish highlands. It was a place of stone and silence, where the wind did not whistle but groaned through the narrow arrow slits, a sound like a dying man clearing his throat. Sir Julian Ashworth stood before the great oak door, his gauntleted hands resting on the pommel of his...
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