The Distant Blade
The air in the Great Hall smelled of roast boar and wet wool. It was a thick, cloying scent, heavy enough to taste on the tongue. I sat at the long oak table, my hands folded in my lap. My hands were still. They had been still for three days. The candlelight flickered, casting long, dancing shadows against the stone walls. Shadows that moved like living things. To my left sat Lord Ashworth. He...
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