The Wistful Voyage
The iron clank of the chain against the cobblestones is the first thing you remember, sharper than the cold, sharper than the taste of blood in your mouth. You are on your knees in the muddy square, the rain slicking your hair to your forehead, the weight of the manor’s silver chalice heavy in your left hand. It is not a weapon, not truly, but in the eyes of the Magistrate’s guards, it is a...
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