The Pale Bridge
The rain did not fall so much as it seeped, a cold, gray mist that clung to the stone of the High Court and soaked through the wool of the uniforms, turning the crisp lines of the guards into blurred, weeping figures. Sir Elias Vane stood at the threshold of the Gate of Whispers, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had not tasted blood in twenty years, feeling the familiar, dull ache...
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