The Pale Letter
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey curtain that blurred the line between the cobblestones of the Old Quarter and the sky above, a sky that had forgotten the sun for so long it seemed to have simply ceased to exist. Thomas Bradshaw stood in the center of the courtyard of the Citadel, a structure of such ancient and imposing stone that it seemed less a building...
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