The Faded Root
The road to Blackthorn was not a road at all, but a scar of red clay torn through the grey heather, slick with the morning rain that had wept since the bell tolled for dawn. Thomas Bradshaw walked it with the heavy, deliberate cadence of a man who had forgotten how to run. His armor, once a gleaming testament to the King’s justice, now hung loose and dented, the steel etched with the rust of a...
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