The Golden Crossing
The rain had not ceased in the valley of Ashworth for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the earth into a slurry of mud and memory, and within the damp, stone-walled keep of Lord Blackwood, Sir Julian stood alone in the center of the great hall, his hand pressed firmly against the small of his back where the leather of his scabbard chafed against his skin. The air was thick with...
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