The Distant Wound

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2026-08-20 11:00:20 -

The Distant Wound

The great hall of the Citadel of Ironwood did not smell of stone or old dust, but of cloying rosewater and the metallic tang of unwashed fear. It was a feast for the High Council, a spectacle of opulence that seemed to float above the squalor of the lower cities, suspended in a bubble of artificial warmth where the air was thick with the scent of roasted boar and expensive perfume. Sir Julian...

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