The Pale Bridge
The bell tolled not for the hour, but for the end. It was a sound like iron tearing through wet wool, a shriek that scraped the inside of Thomas Bradshaw’s skull and left it ringing with a hollow, metallic taste. He stood in the courtyard of the Blackgate Keep, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts that misted in the cold air. The mud sucked at...
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