The Pale Circus
The road into the valley of Aethelgard was not merely a path of crushed stone and mud, but a wound in the earth that bled with the memory of old wars. Maren walked it with the heavy, deliberate gait of a woman who carried more than her own weight, her cloak a tattered gray against the vibrant, decaying green of the late summer woods. She was not a knight, nor a lord, nor a lady of the manor,...
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