The Distant Nightmare
The dream began not with sound, but with the wet, heavy sensation of blood pooling in a shoe that did not belong to him. Walter Ashworth woke with a gasp, his heart hammering against the ribs of his leather doublet as if trying to escape. The room was dim, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth and the pale, sickly glow of the moon through the high, narrow windows of the royal palace. He...
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