The Distant Promise
The gate was black. Not the black of night. Not the black of a bruise. It was the black of a void. A hungry, wet dark that swallowed the light of the torches. It stood at the edge of the courtyard, a slab of iron and oak, bound in chains that wept rust. "You are late, Thomas," said the voice from the shadows. It was Lord Ashworth. He did not step forward. He did not need to. His presence was a...
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