The Wistful Dinner
The sword broke. Not snapped. Shattered. Like glass. Like ice. The steel split down the middle. Fragments flew. They stung. They cut. Malcolm held the half. He held it tight. The other half fell. It hit the floor. It clinked. It rolled. It stopped. He stood there. In the hall. The Great Hall. But not the Great Hall. Not anymore. The air was thick. It smelled of ozone. Of old blood. Of wet...
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