The Pale Path
The leather satchel weighed three pounds, four ounces, and the cost of a man’s life. Kaelen counted the stitches in the strap as he walked, the needle’s path a jagged line against the dark hide. He had ridden for nine days to reach the valley of Oakhaven, his horse dead from exhaustion and frost, left to rot by the roadside. The air here smelled of wet rot and old iron, a scent that clung to...
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