The Faded Attic
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a gray, suspended curtain that blurred the boundary between the castle’s stone walls and the world outside. Sir Thomas Ashworth stood in the center of the great hall, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that felt heavier with every passing year, the metal cold and indifferent against his palm. He was a man carved from the same granite as...
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