The Faded River
The road to the Spire of Aethelgard was not paved, but worn smooth by the hooves of horses and the soles of boots that had long since crumbled to dust. It wound through the mist-choked valleys of the Northern Reach, where the air tasted of iron and old rain. Sir Caelen rode at the head of the column, his armor dented and dark, his face a mask of stone beneath the rim of his helm. He was a man...
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