The Pale Banner
The stone walls of the infirmary wept with a dampness that tasted of iron and rot, a constant, cold pressure against Thomas Bradshaw’s skin as he sat on the straw pallet, his left hand wrapped in a bloody linen that had long since turned the color of dried blood. He was thirty years old, a scribe by trade and a prisoner by circumstance, and the only part of his body that still felt whole was...
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