The Wistful Ashes
The iron bit of my horse, a heavy and ancient thing forged in the smithies of the outer keep, dug into the gum of the stallion, a pain so sharp and immediate that it sang a high, thin note in the back of my skull, a sound that was less auditory than visceral, a vibration that traveled down the length of my spine and settled into the marrow of my bones, a constant, grinding reminder that I was a...
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