The Golden Farce

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2026-08-19 22:02:59 -

The Golden Farce

The rain did not fall; it hung, a heavy, grey curtain that smelled of wet stone and old blood. Inside the watchtower, the air was thick with the scent of tallow and the metallic tang of fear. Sir Alistair Thorne sat on a wooden stool, his back straight despite the ache that had taken up residence in his left knee. The pain was a familiar companion, a dull throb that synced with the beating of...

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