The Wistful Dinner
The rain had not stopped for three days, turning the King’s Road into a slurry of mud and broken carriage wheels. Sir Aldous Vane rode through the deluge, the leather of his saddle slick and cold against his back, his eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of the capital. He was forty years old, a man whose face had been carved by the wind and the weight of a single, heavy duty. In his saddlebag,...
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