The Wistful Saga
The first words spoken in the great hall of Blackwood Keep were not of war, but of wood. “It is a birch,” said Thomas, his voice thin against the vaulted stone, “and it is already dead.” Lord Ashworth did not look up from the map spread before him. The parchment was stained with wine and wax, a chaotic geography of red ink and blue lines that seemed to swallow the light in the room. He was a...
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