The Wistful Skyline
The iron bell of the watchtower tolled with a voice that was not sound but a physical weight, a heavy, resonant thrum that vibrated in the marrow of Thomas Bradshaw’s bones and settled in the hollows of his chest like a second, colder heartbeat. He stood at the edge of the battlement, the wind tearing at the hem of his woolen coat, his fingers wrapped so tightly around the hilt of his short...
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