The Faded Alibi
Mehdi Yousefi’s hands, stained with the grey dust of the wool market, gripped the reins of his mule as the fog lifted to reveal the marble hills of Khorram, sharp and white against the pale sky. He was thirty years old, a warrior by training but a grader of fiber by trade, and he carried in his saddlebag a clay amulet worn smooth by twenty years of prayer and worry. The road to the Eternal...
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