The Pale Meridian
The wind did not howl. It whispered. It was a thin, reedy sound, like a finger tracing the rim of a chipped cup. You felt it in the teeth. You felt it in the hollow of the throat. "Are you warm, Thomas?" The voice was gravel over stone. Old. Worn smooth by years of shouting commands into the void. You looked up. Sir Aldous stood over you, his cloak heavy with ice crystals that caught the pale...
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