The Golden Farce
The stone of the keep did not merely stand; it breathed, a slow and terrible respiration that echoed in the hollows of Aldric’s chest as he pressed his back against the cold wall of the outer courtyard. Rain lashed the flagstones in sheets of gray iron, blurring the boundary between the sky and the earth, turning the world into a suspended, weeping void. He was a man of the scribe’s desk, a...
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