The Faded Alibi
The iron gate of the Bastille stood not as a barrier but as a throat, a narrow, rusted maw that swallowed the light of the dying afternoon and spat it back out in thin, bruised streaks that lashed against the cobblestones of the courtyard, where you, Thomas Bradshaw, stood with your sword arm trembling not from fear but from the profound, hollow exhaustion of a man who has run out of reasons to...
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