The Pale Bridge
You walk the road that cuts through the valley of the Ashwood, and the air is thick with the scent of wet iron and old rain. It is a strange time here, where the seasons do not turn in a circle but spiral inward, tightening like a noose around the neck of the world. You are a soldier of the King’s Guard, though the title feels heavy and ill-fitting, like a coat taken off a man three sizes...
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