The Pale Verdict
The iron key, cold as the heart of winter, sat upon the damp stone floor of the oubliette, a small, metallic eye staring up at me with a silence that was louder than the screaming winds above. I am Sir Alaric Thorne, and for thirty years I have served the Crown with a loyalty so absolute it has calcified into the very marrow of my bones, a devotion that borders on the holy and the mad in equal...
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