The Golden Scar
The fire roars in the hearth of the Great Hall, a beast of orange and black that consumes the timber with a hunger that mirrors the silence hanging heavy in the air, a silence so thick you can taste the iron tang of old blood and the sweet, rotting perfume of the lilies that line the long table where you sit, your hands bound not by rope but by the sheer, crushing weight of the expectation that...
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