The Pale Shadows
The dust in the cellar of the old watchtower tastes of iron and old rain as you scrub the rust from the pommel of your sword, the motion rhythmic and hypnotic, a prayer offered to a god who has long since stopped listening to the prayers of men who stand between the living and the dying. You are the last of the King’s Watch, a title that once carried the weight of the realm’s conscience but now...
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