The Wistful Ashes
The iron key bit into the frozen lock, and Elias Thorne’s hands, raw and red from the winter wind, trembled as he forced the gate of the Lord Vane manor open. It was the year 1402, and the snow lay thick on the road to the capital, a white shroud that muffled the cries of his exhausted platoon behind him. Elias was a border warden, thirty years old with a back that ached from the weight of his...
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