The Distant Temple
The banquet hall smelled of roasted boar and old stone. You sat at the far end of the long oak table, your fingers stained with ink that would not wash out. You were the Archivist. Your job was to remember what the Kingdom had chosen to forget. Across the table, King Aldric raised his cup. The liquid inside was dark, almost black. It was not wine. It was the distilled essence of the last three...
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