The Faded Quadrant
The rain did not fall so much as it existed, a heavy, suspended mist that turned the grey stone of the Keep into a living, breathing thing, weeping its old salts into the moat below. I stood at the threshold of the Great Hall, my hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had not tasted blood in a decade, feeling the cold seep through the leather of my glove, a sensation that was less physical...
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