The Wistful Dinner
The blade of the ceremonial sword, a thing of polished steel and cold history that had hung above the hearth in the great hall of the Ashworth estate for three centuries, had finally slipped from my grip and struck the marble floor with a sound that was not quite a ring but a dull, final thud, the kind of noise that seems to swallow the surrounding air and leave behind a vacuum of silence so...
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