The Wistful Witness
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a gray, suspended mist that soaked into the bones of the world. Thomas stood at the edge of the Blackwood, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The steel was cold, a dead weight against his palm. He was a soldier of the Watch, a title that meant little here, in the place where time had no teeth. "Stay back," he said. His voice was rough, stripped...
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