The Distant Temple
The count of the paces from the village gate to the first stand of pines was three hundred and twelve, a number Sir Aldric had memorized as one memorizes a prayer, each step a small, deliberate act of will against the damp earth that seemed to swallow the sound of his boots. He was forty years old, a knight of the Iron Order whose armor had been polished by the sweat of a decade’s service, and...
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