The Pale Garden
The seal was not a mark of authority, nor a badge of honor, but a curse etched in silver, cold and unyielding against the palm of Sir Alistair Thorne. It had been there for forty years, since the day he was knighted in a hall that smelled of wet wool and old blood, since the moment the old King, his eyes milky with cataracts and malice, had pressed the metal into his flesh with a strength that...
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