The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-21 23:07:51 -

The Faded Bouquet

The dream always began with the scent of wet stone and old blood. Thomas Wynn stood in the corridor. The air was thick. It tasted of iron. He held his sword. His hand trembled. Not from fear. From cold. The cold seeped from the floor. It bit into his bones. He looked down. His boots were red. The red was not paint. It was fresh. It was warm. He knew what this was. He had known for years. The...

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