The Faded Frequency
The rain did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the bruised purple sky, a persistent, cold mist that seeped into the very marrow of the stone walls of the Citadel of Aethelgard, a fortress built not of brick and mortar but of compressed time and silence, where the air itself felt heavy with the weight of unspoken words and the static charge of a world holding its breath. Thomas Bradshaw sat...
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