The Wistful Skyline
The dream began not with light, but with the heavy, wet weight of a sky that had forgotten how to fall, a bruised expanse of violet and indigo pressing down upon the spires of a castle that did not exist on any map of the waking world, where the air tasted of ozone and old stone and the metallic tang of blood that had been shed so many times it had become a flavor of the wind. Sir Julian...
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