The Distant Machine
The mud sucked at your boots with a wet, tearing sound as you pressed your shoulder against the gate of the garrison. You are Elias, thirty-two years old, and the winter of 1342 is already closing its fingers around the valley. In your hand, wrapped in oilskin that has begun to rot at the edges, is the letter your father died holding. You need to deliver it to the King before the snows seal the...
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