The Faded Guest
The rain lashed against the high, arched windows of the Grand Court, a rhythmic drumming that sounded less like weather and more like the impatient tapping of ten thousand fingers waiting to strike. I stood in the center of the marble floor, my chest heaving, the taste of copper thick on my tongue. I was not a warrior. I was a clerk. I was Thomas Bradshaw, a man who spent his days aligning...
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