The Golden Suspect
The leather is cracked. It is a deep, fissured map of your own neglect. You hold it in the gloom of the guardroom, the scent of damp stone and old iron filling your nose. It is a glove. Just a glove. But it is yours. Or it was. You are Sir Aldric. The title hangs heavy, a chain around your neck. You are the King’s Hand. You are the eye that does not blink. For ten years, you have stood in the...
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