The Faded Quadrant
The storm broke over the keep at dawn, tearing the slate from the eaves like grey shingles from a sick roof. Rain lashed the stone, cold and relentless, a physical weight that pressed against the window panes of the great hall. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of wet wool, old sweat, and the metallic tang of fear. Sir Julian stood at the center of the room, his back to the fire, his...
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