The Distant Affair
The rain fell in sheets, turning the road to the palace into a river of mud and blood. Thomas Bradshaw walked alone. He carried a staff of blackthorn, worn smooth by years of handling. It was his voice when his mouth was silent. He felt the wet seep into his boots. The cold was a heavy hand on his shoulders. He was a man who listened to the air. He heard the whispers of the dead in the wind. He...
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