The Wistful Skyline
The roof of the manor house gave way with a sound like a gunshot, a dry, violent crack that shattered the silence of the cellar. Dust, thick and grey as ash, poured down from the ceiling, coating the face of Thomas Bradshaw in a fine, cold film. He did not blink. He stood in the center of the wine storage, his sword drawn, the metal humming with a low, terrible resonance that had nothing to do...
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