The Faded Frequency
The rain has been falling since the dawn, a relentless, gray curtain that erodes the edges of the world and blurs the boundary between the stone of the keep and the soul of the man who guards it. You sit in the high chamber, the one with the broken mullions and the draft that smells of wet wool and old iron, and you watch the water drip from the eaves in a rhythm that seems to measure out your...
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