The Wistful Dinner
The road is wet. The mud clings to your boots with a tenacity that feels personal, a grip that knows your fatigue. You walk. The rain falls in sheets, cold and indifferent, soaking the leather of your cloak. You are a knight. The title is a weight on your back, heavier than the steel. The steel is gone. The sword is gone. What remains is the body, the muscle memory, the silence. You carry a...
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