The Distant Clue
The year was 1240, and the air in the high passes of the northern marches tasted of iron and impending frost. Sir Kaelen rode a white mare named Elara, her coat matted with the gray mud of the moor, while he clutched the reins with hands that had long since forgotten the softness of a plow handle. He was forty years old, a knight whose body moved with the stiff, deliberate caution of a man who...
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