The Distant Ghost
The iron gate of the Keep at Blackwood had not been opened in three hundred years, yet it swung inward with a groan that sounded less like metal on stone and more like a long, suppressed exhale from the lungs of the earth itself, and Thomas Bradshaw stood in the courtyard, his armor dented and stained with the rust of old blood, feeling the weight of the silence pressing against his temples...
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