The Wistful Skyline
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a heavy, grey curtain that smelled of wet wool and old stone. Inside the tower room, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Thomas Whitmore sat before the fire, his hands resting on the edge of the oak table, knuckles white, as if he were trying to hold the wood together. He was a man who had spent...
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