The Faded Quadrant
The fog was eating the walls, or so Rafael Aguilar believed, his hand white-knuckled on the hilt of a sword that had not tasted blood in twenty years. He stood in the center of the ancestral hall, the stone floor slick with condensation, and waited for the enemy to strike. His uncle, Magistrate Donato, stood in the shadows by the door, a silhouette of grey wool and quiet authority, watching the...
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