The Faded Bouquet
The stone was cold, a slab of ancient granite that seemed to drink the heat from Edward Ashworth’s palms as he gripped the hilt of his ceremonial sword, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps that tore at the lining of his throat like shredded silk. He was alone in the vast, circular chamber at the apex of the tower, a space so high and so wide that the distant light from the...
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