The Wistful Skyline
The iron clatters against the stone with a sound like a dying bell, and I am on my knees, the mud of the courtyard soaking into the wool of my breeches, the taste of copper and old blood thick and heavy on my tongue, while the guardsmen of the High Court advance upon me with spears that catch the dying light of the autumn sun in sharp, indifferent glints. I do not raise my sword, for I know...
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