The Distant Joke
I woke with the taste of iron in my mouth. It was not blood. It was rust. The taste of old coins left in rain. I lay in the straw. The loft of the granary. The air was thick with the scent of dried grain and damp wool. Outside, the city slept under a sky of bruised purple. I was a knight. Or a soldier. The distinction blurred in the fog of my mind. I remembered the armor. The weight of it. The...
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