The Wistful Asylum
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the courtyard of Blackwood Keep into a slurry of brown mud and shattered leaves. Elias Thorne stood in the doorway of the infirmary, his boots sinking into the wet stone, and watched the General’s adjutant, a thin man named Cresswell, wipe his spectacles with a dirty handkerchief. "You are telling me," Cresswell said, his voice flat and...
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