The Golden Suspect
The candlelight in the Great Hall of King Aethelred’s palace does not merely illuminate the stone; it devours it, turning the shadows into pools of molten gold where the air hangs thick with the scent of roasted swan and old blood, and you stand there in your chainmail, the metal cold against your skin despite the heat of the feast, watching the courtiers dance their slow, serpentine dances...
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