The Pale Verdict
The great hall of the Palace of Aethelgard did not smell of stone or dust, as one might expect of a ruin, but of wet wool and the sharp, metallic tang of old blood, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a bad taste. It was a place where silence had weight, where the air itself seemed to thicken around the ankles, pulling at the hem of Sir Alaric’s velvet doublet with a jealous,...
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