The Wistful Witness
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed a relentless, hollow rhythm against the slate roof of the watchtower, a sound like knuckles rapping on old wood. Elias Thorne sat on a bench of damp stone, his uniform pressed to his ribs by the damp chill. He was the Night Warden of the Highgate Bridge, a post of little glory but great solitude. His duty was simple: keep the gate closed to...
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