The Faded Photograph
The rain fell in sheets of grey iron, hammering against the slate roof of the abandoned tollbooth where Cillian stood, his knuckles white around the hilt of a sword that had not tasted blood in forty years, the metal cold and slick beneath his palms as if it were a living thing trying to pull him back into the earth from which it had been forged. He was a man of the old ways, a guardian of the...
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