The Distant Promise
The feast in the great hall of Castle Ashworth was a cacophony of clattering silver and the heavy, suffocating scent of roasted boar, yet to Sir Thomas Bradshaw, who sat at the far end of the long oak table with his hands clasped tightly around a cup of dark ale, it felt less like a celebration and more like the final gathering of breath before a long, silent exhalation into the void of...
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