The Pale Bridge
The rain slicks the cobblestones of the Old Quarter. You are running. Your lungs burn with the taste of copper and old dust. Behind you, the bells of St. Jude’s toll a funeral dirge for a day that has already ended. You are not a hero. You are a thief. A wretch. A man who stole the breath from his own sister to keep his own heart beating. The city of Aethelgard does not sleep. It never does....
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