The Golden Suspect
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the old town into a slick, treacherous mirror reflecting the dim, flickering gaslights of the watchtowers. I stood at the edge of the cliff, my boots caked in the heavy, red mud of the lower districts, the wind pulling at my woolen cloak with a ferocity that seemed almost personal, as if the air...
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