The Pale Shadows
The iron bites your shoulder before you even feel the blow. You are mid-stride, boots striking the wet stone of the causeway. Rain hammers the black water. It is cold. It is thick. It tastes of rust and old blood. You do not look back. You never look back. To look back is to die. Your sword is short. It is dull. It has been with you since the border skirmishes in the north. It has seen the mud...
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