The Wistful Skyline
The iron gate of the Keep did not open. It had not opened for a hundred years, not since the last Lord of the Vale had ridden out to meet his executioner, and the rust that bound the hinges together was a heavy, red silence that spoke of forgotten vows. I stood before it, my hand resting on the cold metal, feeling the vibration of the city beyond the walls. Down in the market square, the bells...
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