The Golden Farce
Aldric. The name came from the square, a sharp crack of voice that cut through the morning mist. It was not a summons, but a call to attention, the kind a foreman uses to check the inventory of a man’s soul. Sir Aldric Vane stood at the edge of the cobblestones, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, though the blade remained sheathed. He was thirty-two, and the weight of the iron cuirass...
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