The Faded Frontier
Hold the line, Kaelen. The voice in his head was not his own, but it carried the weight of a stone dropped into a deep well. Sir Kaelen stood in the mud of the Blackwood Gate, his boots sinking into the slurry of rotting leaves and wet earth. It was the year of our Lord 1342, and the air smelled of iron and old rain. His sword, a broad-bladed thing that had seen three wars and a dozen...
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