The Pale Meridian
The air in the valley of Aethelgard did not smell of earth or rain, but of ozone and old iron, a metallic tang that coated the back of Thomas’s throat as he swung his sword. He was not fighting for glory, nor for the crown that sat upon the head of King Aldric, but for the integrity of the line, a fragile barrier of white stone that stretched across the misty lowlands like a meridian drawn by a...
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