The Wistful Skyline
The wind did not howl that night; it whispered, a low, continuous thrumming that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of the stones themselves. Sir Edward Ashworth stood at the edge of the village green, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, feeling the cold seep through the leather of his gauntlet and into the bone beneath. He was not looking at the darkened cottages or the gnarled oaks that...
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