The Wistful Cipher
The blade was in my hand. It was red. Not with blood, yet. But with the heat of the air. We were in the street. The stones were wet. Rain. Always rain in this city. It slicked the cobblestones. It made the shadows bleed. I stood before the gate. The gate was iron. It was old. It was heavy. It smelled of rust and old money. Behind it, the house. The house was dark. The house was waiting. I am a...
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