The Faded Frontier

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2026-08-17 16:23:18 -

The banquet hall in the Scottish Highlands did not smell of roasting venison or spiced ale, as the old ledgers claimed it should, but of wet wool, ozone, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear that seeped up through the flagstones. Lord Alistair MacIntyre stood at the head of the long oak table, his uniform immaculate, the brass buttons polished until they reflected the flickering candlelight...

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