The Wistful Silence
The bell in the steeple of St. Jude’s does not ring with the metallic clarity of a warning, but with a dull, bruised thud that seems to originate from the marrow of your bones. You are standing in the square, the cobblestones slick with a rain that has been falling for three days, a rain that smells of wet iron and decay. You are wearing the heavy wool coat of the King’s Guard, the fabric...
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