The Distant Wound
The carriage wheels bit into the frozen mud of the King’s Road, shuddering with a rhythmic, bone-deep vibration that resonated in the hollows of Julian Thorne’s chest, a frequency that seemed to match the arrhythmic thumping of his own failing heart as he traveled toward the Ashen Gate, the great iron mouth of the Royal Infirmary. He was a man constructed of sharp angles and muted colors, his...
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