The Wistful Cipher
The iron door of the Blackfriars Watchtower groaned. It was a sound like a dying man clearing his throat. Thomas Ashworth stood on the threshold, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The metal was cold. It bit into his palm. He did not pull it away. The air inside was thick. It smelled of wet stone and stale incense. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of light that cut through the...
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