The Distant Crown
The iron bit of the horse was cold in Aldous’s mouth, a metallic taste that bloomed alongside the copper of his own blood. He was not riding so much as being dragged, his legs pinned against the flanks of the destrier by a lasso of rawhide that cut into the flesh of his thighs with every jolt of the muddy road. The rain in the Blackwood Valley did not fall so much as it hovered, a gray,...
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