The Faded Frontier
Seven hours. That was the count, the cold arithmetic of the road from the outer ring to the palace square, and Sir Aldric knew with the certainty of a man who has measured his own pulse for decades that he had perhaps four of those hours left in the vessel of his body. The Iron Cloak, draped over his shoulders, was not merely heavy; it was a living weight, a dense, cold mass of blackened steel...
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