The Pale Shadows
The road to the Abbey of St. Jude was not a road at all, but a scar in the earth, worn by the hooves of oxen and the wheels of wagons that carried grain for the winter stores. I walked it in the dead of night, the moon a pale sliver of bone in a sky the color of old bruised plums. My armor, usually a second skin of comfort, felt like a cage of iron rings against my chest, each link a cold...
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