The Pale Garden
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended curtain of grey water that turned the cobblestones of Alderwick into mirrors of the low, bruised sky. I stood at the threshold of the gatehouse, my hand resting on the pommel of my sword, the cold iron biting into my palm. It was the hour before the dawn, the time when the town slept its heaviest sleep, dreaming of harvests and...
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