The Wistful Asylum
The rain had been falling for three days, a cold and persistent sheet that turned the cobblestones of the courtyard into slick, dark mirrors reflecting the grey sky above. I stood by the heavy oak doors of the Keep, my hand resting on the pommel of a sword I had not drawn in a decade, the metal cold against my palm. The weight of it was a familiar thing, a burden I had carried so long it had...
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