The Wistful Asylum
The rain in the courtyard of the Old Palace did not fall so much as it hung, a cold, grey veil that turned the wet stone into a slick, treacherous mirror of the night sky. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood in the center of this damp square, his rifle raised, his breath pluming in the chill air as he tracked a shadow that moved with a speed that defied the heavy mud under his boots. He was thirty-two...
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