The Wistful Show
The dream had no ceiling. It was a void of black wool, soft and suffocating, pressing against the back of Aldric’s skull. In this dream, he was not the exiled lord of the Northern Reach. He was a child. Small. Barefoot on cold stone. He held a ring. It was iron. Cold. Heavy. The band was twisted, like a vine that had grown wild and choked itself. It fit his finger. It was his. He turned it over...
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