The Wistful Dinner
The iron crown of the old castle was not made of metal, but of the collective, unspoken dread of every soul who had ever set foot within its crumbling, ivy-strangled walls, and it sat heavy upon the brow of Sir Julian Thorne, a warrior whose hands, once capable of shattering stone, now trembled with the quiet, persistent ache of a body that had been slowly, invisibly consumed by the very air it...
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