The Wistful Saga
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended curtain of grey mist that smelled of wet wool and old iron. Thomas Ashworth stood at the edge of the village square, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had once been the center of his world. It was a heavy thing, the blade pitted by rust and time, the leather grip worn smooth by the sweat of a man who had spent his life...
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