The Wistful Throne
The feast in the great hall of the keep was a riot of noise and light, the air thick with the smoke of roasting boar and the sharp, metallic tang of spilled ale, yet you stand apart from the revelry, your hand resting on the cold hilt of your sword as if it were a lifeline to a shore you can no longer see, watching the men and women dance in a circle that seems to spin endlessly against the...
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