The Pale Echo
The dampness of the keep does not smell of rot, as you might expect, but of old stone and colder iron. You are Elias Thorne, Captain of the Royal Guard, and in four hours, the headsman’s axe will fall. You are writing this because the silence in your cell is too loud, and because you must get it down while your hands still tremble only slightly. The King has decreed your execution for the theft...
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