The Distant Summer
The mist did not merely hang over the valley of Ashwick; it inhabited the stone, seeping into the mortar of the watchtower, dampening the wool of the garrison’s coats, and settling into the marrow of Aldric Thorne until he felt less like a man and more like a statue carved from the very fog he was sworn to dispel. He stood at the parapet, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had seen...
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