The Pale Path
The hand was not on the table, Sir Elias, but in the ledger, and the ledger says it is dead. The King’s voice was dry, like paper rubbing against stone, and it came from behind a screen of green velvet that smelled of mildew and old varnish. Sir Elias stood in the center of the hall, his right hand gripping the pommel of his sword so hard the leather creaked. He was forty years old, and his...
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