The Wistful Show
The rain fell on the stone bridge like a curse. "You are not what you think," said the old man. He stood in the archway, his cloak heavy with mud and blood. "You are the shadow that casts the light." I did not answer. My hand rested on the hilt of my sword. The metal was cold. My heart was hot. "Who are you?" I asked. "A fool," he said. "And a traitor." He turned and walked into the fog. I...
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