The Wistful Saga

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2026-08-19 14:34:22 -

The Wistful Saga

The mud in the courtyard of Oakhaven Keep did not dry in autumn. It merely deepened, a thick, black paste that swallowed the boots of men who had forgotten the taste of bread but remembered the taste of iron. I stood by the stables, mending a harness strap with a needle made from a sharpened bone, my fingers numb from the damp. The air smelled of wet straw, horse dung, and the faint, metallic...

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