The Faded Frontier
The iron key was cold, slick with the condensation of the cellar where it had hung for three days. I turned it in my palm, feeling the weight of it, a solid thing against the hollow ache in my chest. Outside, the wind battered the shingles of the Watchtower, a sound like knuckles rapping on a coffin lid. I am Rachel Kestrel, thirty-two years old, and I have twenty years of service on the books,...
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