The Golden Master
"Is it the fever, my lord? Or is it the weight?" The question hung in the damp air of the saddle, sharp as a flint spark. Sir Aldric did not answer. He could not. The words were there, forming on the tip of his tongue, but they dissolved before they could take shape, scattered by a sudden, violent chill that had nothing to do with the wind. He gripped the reins tighter, his knuckles white...
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