The Distant Joke

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2026-08-20 00:11:42 -

The Distant Joke

The feast had begun with the sound of grinding bones, a rhythmic, wet percussion that echoed off the vaulted stone ceiling of the Hall of Whispers. Sir Elias Thorne sat at the far end of the long oak table, his plate untouched, his fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of a sword that felt heavy with a weight that was not steel. The air in the hall was thick, not with the smell of roasting...

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