The Golden Visit
The feast in the great hall of Ashworth Manor was a cacophony of clinking silver and strained laughter, a sound that hung in the stale, wax-scented air like a heavy, invisible cloth. Sir Thomas Bradshaw sat at the head of the long oak table, his armor polished to a mirror shine, though he wore it not for battle but for the peculiar, suffocating ritual of his own command. The candles flickered,...
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