The Distant Metropolis
The iron clasps on the cloak were cold to the touch, a persistent chill that seeped into the fingers regardless of the warmth of the hearth. I sat by the fire in the great hall, my armor stripped away, leaving only the heavy wool and the silence of the manor. My son, Thomas, stood in the shadows near the archway, his face pale and drawn. He was seventeen, tall enough to reach the top shelf of...
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