The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-23 11:37:40 -

The count was precise: forty years of service, one recurring dream, and a sword that had not been sharpened in three days. Sir Aldric woke in the grey pre-dawn light of his tent, the canvas damp against his skin, and counted the hours until the sun would rise over the valley of St. Jude’s. He had been awake for six hours, staring at the stone wall of his temporary quarters, waiting for the...

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