The Wistful Show
You are walking north, where the road dissolves into the gray, indifferent spine of the Welsh hills. The year is not fixed, but the air tastes of iron and wet wool, a texture that belongs to a time before clocks measured the soul. You are a knight of the outer ring, a man whose armor is not steel but the rigid, unyielding code of the Crown. Your name is irrelevant here. It is a thing that has...
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