The Wistful Silence
The iron gate of the Citadel of Saint Jude groaned against the rusted hinges as I pushed it open, the sound a long, dragging exhalation that seemed to echo back from the very stones of the courtyard where the blood of three days’ worth of executions had been scrubbed, and yet never fully cleansed, into the cobblestones that now lay slick and treacherous beneath the heavy boots of the men who...
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