The Wistful Mirror
The leather of the treaty case creaked against the saddlebag, a dry, cracking sound that seemed too loud in the silence of the mist. Sir Kaelen adjusted the strap, his fingers numb from the cold, and nudged his horse forward. The Iron Vale did not have a smell, only a pressure, a weight that sat on the chest and made every breath feel like labor. He was forty years old, and his knees ached with...
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