The Wistful Skyline
The fire had not come from the woods, as the scouts had whispered, but from the heart of the keep itself. It bloomed in the great hall with a terrible, silent violence, turning the oak beams into blackened ribs against a sky of orange ash. Commander Arthur Penhaligon stood at the top of the broken rampart, his armor dented and cold, watching the smoke rise in a column that pierced the low,...
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