The Pale Verdict
The iron gate of the keep stood open. It was a wound in the stone wall, dark and gaping. Sir Alistair stepped through. He did not look back. He carried a sword. The blade was short and thick. It was old. The steel was pitted. It had seen many wars. It knew blood. It knew sweat. It knew fear. Alistair walked up the hill. The grass was wet. It clung to his boots. The sky was gray. It hung low...
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