The Pale Banner
The snow had been falling for three days, turning the cobblestones of the Old Quarter into a slush of grey and white, and you walked with your head down, the Pale Banner draped over your shoulder like a shroud that refused to settle. You were Elias, an inquisitor of the Order, thirty-two years old, and your only thought was the winter solstice, the deadline by which Magistrate Vane had promised...
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