The Golden Farce
The banquet hall of the Iron Citadel was not built for comfort, but for the projection of absolute, unyielding will. You sat at the far end of the long oak table, your armor polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the flickering torchlight in jagged, dancing shards. The air was thick with the scent of roasted venison, spiced wine, and the heavy, metallic tang of old iron. Around you, the...
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