The Pale Banner
The mud of the road to Ashford did not just coat the wheels of the cart; it seemed to swallow them, a thick, brown slurry that held the wood in a grip of malice. Elias Vane, a man whose spine had bent not from age but from the weight of ink and unpaid debts, sat hunched over the ledger in the back of the wagon. He was a scholar of the old tongue, a keeper of words that no longer bought bread,...
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