The Faded Sutra

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2026-08-24 04:01:36 -

The Faded Sutra

The fire in the square of Saint Jude did not smell of smoke, but of wet ash and old copper. Sir Aldric stood at the edge of the pyre, his gauntlets clenched so tightly that the leather straps creaked under the strain of his knuckles. He was forty years old, a man whose face had been carved by twenty years of service to the Duke, and he wanted only to purify the city of the rot that had...

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