The Pale Tale
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended grey curtain over the courtyard of the Blackstone Keep, soaking into the leather of Sir Thomas Whitmore’s armor until the metal beneath grew cold and heavy against his ribs. He stood in the center of the mud, his sword arm trembling not from fear, but from the sheer, exhausting weight of the iron he wore. Around him, the silence of the...
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