The Wistful Mirror
The wind howled through the broken arches of the fortress, a sound like the groaning of a dying beast. Sir Aldric stood alone in the center of the great hall, his back against the cold stone, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He was forty years old, a veteran of the Order of the Temple, and his body ached with the deep, bone-settling exhaustion of a man who had marched too far and...
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