The Wistful Dinner
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a thick, gray curtain that smelled of wet iron and ancient rot, wrapping itself around the stone walls of the outpost where Thomas Whitmore sat alone in the dim light of a tallow candle that sputtered and hissed against the dampness, his fingers resting heavily on the hilt of his sword which had seen better days and bloodier wars, the metal...
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