The Pale Banner
The banner was white, but not the white of snow, rather the pale, sickly hue of old linen left too long in the sun. You woke with the taste of iron in your mouth, the taste of the river water you had drunk from the mill race three days ago. It was a bad habit, a weakness you could not shake. Your hand, still damp from the sweat of the dream, reached for the revolver on the nightstand. The wood...
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