The Pale Verdict
The parchment lay flat in Aldric’s hands, the ink still wet and black as a bruise, and he held it with a tremor that seemed to originate not in his fingers but in the marrow of his bones. It was the year of our Lord 1420, and the light in the dungeon cell was the color of old blood, thin and failing as the sun dropped below the horizon. Sir Aldric of the Pale Guard, forty years of age and...
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