The Wistful Witness
The rain did not fall so much as it was pressed down from the sky by a heavy, invisible hand, slicking the cobblestones of the courtyard in a sheen of oil and gray. Thomas stood before the Great Hall, his back to the door, his boots sinking slightly into the mud that had never quite dried in this place. The air smelled of wet stone and old iron, a scent that clung to the inside of his throat...
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