The Faded River
The mud on the road to Alderwick was thick and black, sucking at the boots of Elias Thorne as he walked with the heavy, rhythmic gait of a man who had already lost the war before he had drawn his sword. It was the autumn of 1347, and the air carried the metallic tang of the plague that had emptied the villages to the south, a scent that clung to the wool of his cloak and the leather of his...
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