The Pale Bridge
The stone bridge over the River Aethel is cold. It has always been cold, even when the sun strikes the arches at noon. You remember the frost that gathers on the flagstones in the early morning, how it slips under the hem of your wool cloak like a whisper. You are a minor clerk in the Chancery of the Duke, a man of ink and silence, and your life is a ledger of small, precise duties. You count...
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