The Wistful Crossroads
In his left hand, Sir Aldric held the Iron Astrolabe, a device of such heavy, cold weight that it seemed to anchor his wrist to the stone floor of the keep, the metal warm and gritty under his thumb where he had polished it for three years with oil and silence, while in the right he held a cup of wine that trembled slightly, not from age, for he was forty and strong, but from the sheer,...
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