The Faded Attic

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2026-08-20 10:42:25 -

The Faded Attic

The rain did not fall so much as it insisted. It hammered the slate roof of the Guildhall with a rhythmic, bone-deep thud that Caelen felt in his teeth. He stood in the center of the workshop, a space that smelled of wet wool, tallow, and the sharp, metallic tang of old blood. The air was thick. It pressed against his skin like a hand. He was a weaver. Not of cloth, but of oaths. In this city,...

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