The Golden Suspect
The torchlight gutters. It dies. You stand in the dark. The cold is a living thing here. It eats your breath. You hold your sword. It is heavy. It is cold. You are a man of the law. Or so they say. You are a tool. A blade without a hand. The stone walls breathe. They do not. They wait. This is the Keep of St. Jude. It has stood for three hundred years. It will stand after you are dust. It does...
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