The Distant Promise
The blade was short. It was a masterwork of steel, folded nine hundred times until the grain was like water in a frozen river. It belonged to Sir Aldric, the King’s Right Hand, and it was buried to the hilt in the ribcage of a man who had no name. The castle was a throat of stone. It swallowed the light. The walls were wet with condensation and the breath of the dead. Aldric pulled the sword...
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