The Wistful Silence
The iron bit snapped against my teeth, a sharp, metallic taste that flooded my mouth with the memory of old blood and the taste of rain on stone. We were running. Not running as men do, with the frantic, flailing desperation of prey, but running as the river runs, with a heavy, inevitable momentum that carved its path through the mud of the city streets. Behind me, the shadow of the Watchman...
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