The Distant Wound
The great hall of the Iron Citadel was not built for men, but for the memory of giants, a cavernous expanse where the air hung thick with the scent of roasted venison, stale ale, and the metallic tang of blood that never quite washed from the flagstones, and here, amidst the thundering laughter of the lord’s retainers and the wailing of lutes that seemed to tear at the very fabric of the night,...
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