The Wistful Atlas

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2026-08-21 08:57:09 -

The Wistful Atlas

The rain did not fall. It hung. It suspended in the air like a fine gray mist, clinging to the cobblestones of the old quarter. I stood at the edge of the bridge. My sword was sheathed. It had been for three days. The city was a maze of stone and shadow. It breathed. The gargoyles wept. The bells tolled for the hour that had not yet passed. I was the last of the Kingsguard. Or so I thought....

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