The Distant Affair
The red wool was still warm in Sir Aldric’s hands, though the pyre had long since died to ash. He woke with the smell of smoke in his throat and the weight of the fabric clinging to his palms, a phantom burden that left no mark but a deep, aching bruise in the muscle. It was the third time this month the dream had come, always the same scene: the cloak burning, the threads unraveling into black...
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