The Distant Garden
The rain does not fall so much as it is forced into the earth by the weight of the sky, a grey, relentless hammering that turns the mud of the Royal Road into a sucking trap for your boots, and you stand there, shivering in a cloak that was once the color of the king’s banner but is now the color of old blood, watching the carriage ahead of you lurch and groan under the strain of the hill, its...
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