The Distant Legend
The pilgrim road wound through the mud of Ostra, a gray ribbon of packed earth where the rain had finally filled the dried wells, turning the harbor mud into a slick that swallowed the boots of every traveler who dared cross it. In the shadow of the Great Hall, where the stone walls wept with damp, Maria Molina stood with her hands deep in the mortar, her fingers numb from the cold and the...
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