The Faded Frontier
The leather of the sword hilt was worn smooth in the center, a pale oval of bare hide where Silas’s thumb had pressed for twenty years, and he held it tightly against his thigh as the cart rattled over the cobblestones of the lower market, the smell of tannery dye and wet horse dung thick in the morning air. He was forty years old, his knees stiff from the cold damp of the barracks, and he was...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews