The Distant Whispers

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2026-08-22 12:54:36 -

The stones of the Blackwood Gate did not merely stand; they listened. Thomas Bradshaw, warden of the northern march, pressed his palm against the rough granite and felt the familiar, sickening hum rise through his bones, a vibration that tasted of iron and old grief. It was the autumn of 1342, and the air was thin with the scent of dying leaves and the coppery tang of blood that seemed to seep...

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