The Distant Temple
The feast in the infirmary of Blackwood Keep was a grotesque parody of celebration, the air thick with the cloying smell of boiled turnips and the metallic tang of old blood, while Captain Elias Thorne sat hunched over a bowl of gruel that had long since congealed into a gray, unappetizing sludge. He was forty years old, a man whose face had been carved by the same relentless wind that had...
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