The Wistful Voyage
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a grey curtain woven from the breath of the sea, pressing against the high, narrow windows of the manor. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool and old dust. Aelred stood by the hearth, his hands trembling not from the cold, but from the weight of the silence that had settled over the hall. He was a man carved from the same stone as the...
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