The Wistful Show
The rain in the valley of Oakhaven did not fall so much as it hung, a grey curtain that smelled of wet stone and old iron. Sir Thomas Ashworth stood at the threshold of the keep, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, though the blade was sheathed and dull with rust. He watched the road where the king’s envoy had just vanished into the mist, leaving behind only the churned mud and the...
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