The Pale Verdict
You stand at the edge of the precipice, your boots caked in the red clay of the valley floor, the air thin and tasting of iron and old rain. You are Sir Julian Thorne, a man whose name is carved into the lintel of the gatehouse, a man who has spent thirty years measuring the world in paces and heartbeats. The wind here is not a breeze but a force, a living thing that presses against your...
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