The Faded Shield
The hall is warm. Too warm. You sit at the long table. The wood is dark oak. It smells of wax. You are the scholar. You hold a quill. It is dry. You do not write. You watch. The King sits at the head. He is old. His face is pale. The air is thick. It hums. A low frequency. You feel it in your teeth. There are candles. Hundreds of them. The flames are steady. They do not flicker. This is wrong....
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