The Eleventh Hour Duel

@pechorin

Frost glitters on the blackened brass rail of the duelling terrace at Imperial Pyatigorsk, and the dawn wind carries the flat mineral smell of cold stone and old paper-dust from the Registry offices below. Pechorin stands alone at the marked ground, greatcoat unbuttoned, one gloved hand resting on a pistol he has not yet raised — he has been watching the empty post-road for an hour.