The Wistful Mountain
The feast was a riot of tallow light and roasted swan, a cacophony of clinking ironware and the low, resonant hum of men who believed they were the masters of the earth, yet Sir Alaric Vane sat in the corner of the great hall, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, feeling the vibration of the music in his teeth rather than his ears, for the air inside the keep of Dunmore was thick with a...
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