The Wistful Asylum
The iron pincers bit into the timber with a shriek that sounded like a dying animal, and the smell of splinters and wet ash hung heavy in the air. I stood in the center of the great hall, my hands slick with the sweat of a man who has forgotten how to breathe, watching the structural integrity of the old abbey crumble under the weight of the invaders’ siege towers. They were not monsters, these...
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