The Distant Metropolis
The gong struck three times, a deep bronze toll that resonated in the marrow of Thomas Bradshaw’s bones, a sound as old and unyielding as the stone walls of the fortress. He stood in the center of the drill yard, the mud sucking at his boots, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had been polished to a mirror shine by the sweat of his own palms. The air was thick with the scent of wet...
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