The Distant Wound
The sleet cuts your face like shards of glass as you ride north, the grain sacks heavy on your back, a dead weight that feels less like food and more like a sentence. You are Elias Thorne, a border warden of thirty-two years, and you have one task left before the winter freezes the Iron Marches solid: deliver the final batch of wheat to Oakhaven. The village is starving, the wells are thinning,...
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