The Golden Scar
The rain did not fall so much as it settled, a heavy, gray curtain that swallowed the spires of Aethelgard whole. Thomas stood at the edge of the balcony, his fingers wrapped around the iron railing until the metal bit into his skin. He was a man carved from the same stone as the city walls, weathered and silent, his uniform a dull gray that blended seamlessly with the mist. For thirty years,...
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