The Golden Farce
The road was red clay. It sucked at the boots of Sir Aldric Thorne. He walked. The sun was a white eye in a blue sky. It watched. It did not blink. Aldric carried the seal. It was gold. It was heavy. It was cold. He held it in his left hand. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sword. The metal was dull. The leather was cracked. He had worn them for ten years. Ten years of service. Ten...
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