The Faded Shield
The banquet hall smells of roasted lamb and old stone, a scent that has seeped into the very mortar of the walls of the Ashworth estate, a place where the air is thick with the weight of lineage and the silent, humming electricity of things that have no name. You stand at the center of the room, your back straight, your hands clasped behind you, feeling the cold sweat that begins to prick the...
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