The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-20 09:43:50 -

The feast hall of King Aldric’s castle at Harrowgate did not smell of roasted boar or spiced wine. It smelled of iron and old blood. The air was thick, heavy with the breath of a hundred nobles who sat in rigid silence, their eyes fixed not on the trestle tables but on the man bound at the center of the room. He was not bound with rope. He was bound with words. His name was Silas. He wore the...

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