The Distant Ghost
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended mist of iron and ash that clung to the shoulders of the city like a shroud too heavy for the living to bear. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the apex of the Spire, a jagged monolith of black stone that pierced the perpetual gloom of the lower districts, his grip white-knuckled on the hilt of a sword that hummed with a frequency only he could...
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