The Distant Wound
The bell in the tower did not ring for the hour. It rang for the surrender. You stood in the corridor of the Grey Keep, the stone beneath your bare feet humming with a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the weight of the air. The air here was thick, viscous, smelling of damp wool, old iron, and the faint, sweet rot of lilies that the Order kept in the...
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