The Wistful Throne
The morning bell in the citadel of Aethelgard did not ring; it tolled, a deep, bronze-throated vibration that traveled through the stone floor and up into the bones of the men standing in the Great Hall. It was a sound that had marked the beginning of every war the kingdom had fought for three centuries, a sonic signature of duty that had long since ceased to be merely auditory and had become a...
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