The Golden Echoes
The morning light in the Great Hall of Whitmore Castle was not the golden warmth of a blessing, but a cold, pale interrogation that stripped the shadows from the corners and left the dust motes hanging in the air like suspended judgment. Sir Alaric Thorne, the Royal Inquisitor, stood before the High Court, his hands clasped behind his back, feeling the familiar, gnawing ache in his knuckles....
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