The Wistful Crossroads
The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell on the mud of the borderlands, a grey, relentless sheet that turned the earth into a soup of silt and rot. Caelen walked with a limp that had nothing to do with his legs and everything to do with his marrow. He was a man of the shield, a soldier of the old pact, but his armor was gone, melted away by the heat of the last siege or perhaps by the...
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