The Pale Banner
Thorne. The name was not shouted in anger but dragged from the air by a voice hoarse from shouting, a sound that cut through the smell of wet wool and stale bread that hung in the courtyard of Oakhaven. Captain Elias Thorne stood at the center of the yard, his boots caked in the red clay of the Northern Marches, holding a sealed letter that felt heavier than the iron breastplate he had worn for...
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