The Wistful Show
The bridge was locked, the iron gate rusted into a permanent grimace, and Lord Aldous stood behind it with a hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had not seen blood in decades. You stood on the muddy bank, your satchel heavy with ink and vellum, your boots caked in the red clay of the lowlands, and you told him that you were only a scribe, a wanderer, and that your brother Thomas had...
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