The Wistful Dinner
The fire in the great hearth of the Blackwood Inn did not burn with the orange, cheerful flicker of wood and tallow, but with a pale, bruised violet flame that whispered against the stones like a dying breath. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the head of the long oak table, his armor polished to a mirror shine that reflected the distorted faces of the guests around him. He was the Warden of the North, a...
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