The Distant Blade
The winter of 1342 settled over the court like a shroud of gray wool, thick and suffocating, pressing against the high arched windows of the Great Hall where the air hung heavy with the scent of tallow and unwashed bodies. You stood there, Elias, your forty years compressed into the aching architecture of your knees, the right joint a jagged shard of glass that split your concentration every...
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