The Pale Path
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a thick, gray curtain that smelled of wet wool and old iron. You stood on the edge of the clay path, your boots sunk to the ankle, watching the mud swirl around your ankles. It was a cold that went straight into the bones, a medieval chill that had no cure but fire and silence. You were a man of the watch, a keeper of the boundary, and the...
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