The Wistful Show
"You have it?" The question hung in the air, thick and sweet as the smoke from the brazier. I did not answer. My hand rested on the hilt of my sword, the leather worn smooth by years of restless service. The man before me was a shadow in the flickering light. He wore the gray cloak of the Order, but his face was hidden. I knew his scent. Iron and old blood. "Show me," he said. I took a step...
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