The Distant Legend
The rain did not fall so much as it seeped, a cold, persistent damp that lived in the marrow of the castle’s ancient stones. Inside the stone-walled chamber, Sir Thomas Bradshaw stood alone, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The iron was cold, a weight that felt less like a tool and more like a second skeleton, fused to his flesh. He watched the water drip from the eaves, each drop...
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