The Distant Joke
The feast was held in the high hall of the Keep of Aethelgard, where the air was thick with the smoke of tallow candles and the sharp, metallic tang of blood from the slaughtered boar. Sir Alaric Vance sat at the lower end of the long oak table, his hands clasped tightly around a cup of ale that trembled in his grip. He was a man of iron and silence, a smith by trade and a knight by grace,...
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