The Golden Harbor
The mud of the coastal keep was not merely wet earth but a thick, sucking mire that seemed to possess its own malice, pulling at the iron-shod boots of Sir Alaric of the Order of the Golden Rose as he stood with his sword raised, the steel trembling not from fatigue but from the sheer, oppressive weight of the air that hung heavy and salt-sprayed over the besieged gate. It was the year of our...
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