The Wistful Skyline
The mortar in my hands had begun to smell of iron and old rain, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat as I stared up at the fractured throat of the spire, the stone itself seeming to exhale a cold, wet whisper that vibrated against my teeth in the thinning autumn air of 1347. I am Elias Thorne, master mason of the Guild of St. Jude, and I have sworn a blood-oath to the Duke that I...
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