The Wistful Campus
The fog in the valley of Ashenmoor did not merely obscure the path; it weighed upon it, a thick, damp wool that clung to the leather of Sir Alaric’s cuirass and seeped into the joints of his knees, which had begun to ache with a persistent, grinding dullness that no amount of rest in the northern marches could cure. At forty, the dampness was no longer an inconvenience but a biological fact, a...
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