The Faded Alibi
The iron gates of Blackwood garrison groan open with a shriek that tears through the dawn mist, shattering the silence you have guarded for twenty years with your life, and the Duke’s men pour in like a black tide, their boots clattering on the wet stone with the rhythmic precision of a death march, while you stand in the courtyard, forty-two years old, your constable’s tunic soaked through...
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