The Wistful Show

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2026-08-23 12:40:30 -

The Wistful Show

The rain did not fall; it hung. It suspended the gray air above the stone keep in a fine, cold mist that smelled of wet wool and old iron. Inside the great hall, the fire had burned low to a sullen orange pulse. Sir Elias Thorne sat by the hearth. His hands rested on his knees. They were still. They had always been still. To the uninitiated eye, they were merely the hands of a man at rest. To...

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