The Wistful Throne
The hall smells of roasted boar and stale beer, a thick, cloying mist that clings to the back of your throat like guilt. You are standing at the edge of the feast, your hands stained with the soot of the forge, your leather apron stiff with the dust of ten thousand hammers. Around you, the lords of the valley laugh, their voices rising in a cacophony of clinking glass and coarse, bellowing...
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