The Distant Promise
The highlands in March are a landscape of mud and crabs, where the thaw floats the docks and the air smells of rotting kelp and wet wool, a stench that clings to the skin like a second, heavier coat. I am Tesfaye Haile, thirty-two, a captain in the imperial guard, writing from the damp cellar of the abandoned monastery where I have been confined for three days, my lungs burning with the cough...
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