The Distant Promise
The iron gauntlet was cold against Sir Aldric’s palm, a weight that had not changed in thirty years, though the hand inside the leather lining had long since turned to dust. He sat in the corner of the stone chamber, the candlelight guttering in the draft that seeped through the cracks in the mortar, illuminating the rusted pitting of the metal and the deep, grooves where his father’s thumb had...
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