The iron clasps of my breastplate had long since worn smooth, polished by the friction of my own anxious hands rather than the battle, and I wore them as a man wears a shroud he has bought too early, the metal cold against the skin of my chest, a heavy, dull weight that anchored me to the earth when the wind threatened to lift me away. I was a knight of the Order of the Pale Gate, a title that...
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