The Pale Banner
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, cold sheet that turned the cobblestones of the outer ward into a slick, black mirror reflecting the dim, flickering oil lamps of the night watchmen. Elias Thorne stood by the heavy oak door, his back to the corridor, his hands resting on the hilt of a sword that had seen better decades, its leather wrap worn through to the raw, grey leather...
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