The Faded Dust
The rain fell in sheets of iron, cold and relentless against the high, sloping roof of the hall. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool, stale ale, and the metallic tang of fresh blood. Margaret stood by the hearth, her hands trembling so violently that the wooden spoon in her grip cracked down the middle. She did not notice the shard falling to the flagstones. Her eyes were fixed...
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