The Distant Wound
The bell tolled at dawn. It was a heavy sound, iron on iron. It shook the dust from the rafters of the Great Hall. Sir Julian stood by the door. He held his sword. It was clean. It was sharp. It was his. He looked at the floor. The stone was cold. He looked at the King. The King sat high. The King wore red. The King said nothing. The King did not need to. The silence was a weapon. Julian knew...
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