The Distant Metropolis
The smoke from Lyon did not drift; it hung, a black ribbon against the pale autumn sky, thick and silent as a shroud. I was in the library of Oakhaven, my fingers stained with ink and the dust of centuries, trying to make sense of a charter that might save us or condemn us. The town was walled, yes, but walls are just stone until men die to keep them, and the Duke of Valois had men enough to...
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