The fog hung thick and cold over the Whispering River at dawn, cloaking the gray waters in an eerie, milky silence. Along the northern ramparts, sentries of the Blackwood Vanguard leaned on their spears, their breath misting in the freezing air. First Marshal Rowan Blackwood was on the parapet, as he had been every morning since the siege began, his spyglass sweeping the southern bank. Suddenly, a sound cut through…
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