The Distant Wound
Chapter One The light in the orchard was wrong for January, thin and gray as old cloth. I checked the tally stick notched to the hilt, counting the days since the last payment. Seven. The fog was rising from the dune country, swallowing the road where the disputed stones marked the parish limit. I needed to reach the Boundary Line by dawn to prove the map was wrong. The Iron State said the land...
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