The Wistful Show
The iron key in your hand is cold, a slab of frozen metal that burns the palm of your left hand where the black vein has started to pulse. You are Aldric, thirty-two, a royal guard of the High Watch, and you are waking from a dream where the castle walls bled rust-colored water onto the stone floor. The dream was not a dream. The blood was on the floor when you woke, dried and flaking, smelling...
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