The Pale Banner
The chisel shatters against the limestone facade, sending a spray of white dust and fractured steel into the October air. You stand there, Arthur Vane, thirty years old and wearing the soot-stained coveralls of a man who has spent too long in the dark, watching the pieces of your tool hit the muddy ground with a sound that feels less like impact and more like a bone breaking. The Blackwood Mill...
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