The Distant Blade
The banquet hall of the Ashworth Ironworks was a cathedral of smoke and brass, its air thick with the scent of roasted boar and the metallic tang of ambition. I stood in the shadows near the mahogany bar, my hands trembling not from the cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that had gathered around me like a funeral shroud. I was an exile in my own home, a ghost haunting the...
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