The Faded Guest

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2026-08-23 10:59:24 -

The Faded Guest

The rain in the capital was not like the rain in the shires; it was cold, grey, and smelled of wet stone and horse dung, and it soaked through the thin wool of Thomas Bradshaw’s tunic as he stood before the massive oak doors of the Great Hall. He was twelve years old, a scribe’s apprentice with ink-stained fingers and a heart that beat too fast for his ribs, clutching a clay seal in his pocket...

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