The Golden Mirror
The road to the Abbey of St. Jude was not a road at all, but a scar of packed mud and loose shale that cut through the grey heath. Sir Aldric rode alone, his horse a dull bay that breathed steam into the freezing air of late November. He carried no banner, no squire, only the cold weight of his sword and the heavy, unopened letter from his wife, Elara, which had arrived three days prior...
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