The Wistful Show
The cellar shook. Dust rained from the beams, a fine grey powder that coated the back of Elias’s throat. He stood in the center of the room, his sword drawn, the steel humming with a low, sickening vibration. It was not the sound of metal. It was the sound of a bone breaking under immense pressure. "Stay down," his father, Arthur, whispered from the corner. Arthur was not a man who whispered...
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