The Distant Metropolis
The fire did not begin with a spark, but with a whisper of sulfur and old wood, a low rumble that seemed to emanate from the very bones of the stone, and when Sir Alistair Thorne stood in the courtyard of the Bastion of St. Jude, watching the eastern tower groan under the weight of its own burning roof, he felt a profound and terrible clarity settle into his marrow, a coldness that had nothing...
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