The Wistful Mountain

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2026-08-19 00:19:34 -

The banquet hall of the Iron Keep smelled of roasted lamb and stale beer, a thick, cloying perfume that hung heavy in the air like a shroud. Torches flared in their iron sconces, casting long, jittery shadows against the stone walls, and the sound of the lute was a thin, reedy thread weaving through the roar of a hundred voices. Sir Thomas Bradshaw sat at the lower end of the table, his armor...

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