The Faded Guest
The fire started in the crypt, beneath the city, and it did not burn like wood. It burned like memory. I stood in the archway of the undercroft, my hand still warm from the hilt of my sword, the leather strap slick with sweat and the metallic tang of old blood. Above me, the bells of St. Jude’s Cathedral were ringing, a frantic, discordant clatter that seemed to vibrate in my teeth. I had been...
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