The Golden Master
The morning fog rolled into the courtyard of the Ironhold, a thick, grey wool that smelled of wet stone and ancient iron, swallowing the spires of the citadel until only the highest peak remained visible, a dark tooth biting into the pale sky. Sir Julian Thorne stood before the Great Mirror, a structure of polished obsidian and silver that dominated the Hall of Whispers, his hand resting on the...
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