The Distant Wound
The mud of the Siege of Valois was not merely wet earth but a living, sucking thing that swallowed the boots of Sir Aldric, a knight of the Iron Guard, who stood in the trench with the specific, tangible release of a full pardon for his debt to the Crown as the only thing standing between him and the executioner’s block. He was thirty years old, a man whose life had been reduced to a ledger of...
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