The Wistful Skyline
The leather of the discharge papers cracked under Nathaniel Averill’s thumb, a dry, brittle sound that echoed in the stone-walled antechamber, where the air tasted of damp wool and old iron filings. He held the document up to the single, grime-streaked window, his hand trembling with the same chronic, unexplained oscillation that had plagued him since the campaign in the lowlands, a vibration...
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