The Pale Circus
The road to the Keep of Ostrava was not merely a path of dirt and gravel but a conduit of exhaustion, the mud sucking at the hooves of Sir Aldric Vane’s horse with a viscosity that mirrored the creeping stiffness in his own joints. At forty-five, Aldric was a man whose body had become a ledger of service, every bend of the spine and creak of the knee a debit against the capital of his youth,...
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