The Distant Summer
The mud on your boots is black and heavy, clinging to the leather like a second skin. You kick it off at the edge of the clearing, letting it fall with a wet thud. The air here is thin. It tastes of iron and old rain. You are far from the garrison, far from the stone walls where the High Court sits, but the weight of their seal is still pressed into the back of your neck. You carry it in the...
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