The Pale Echo
The fire started in the east wing, a sudden and violent blooming of orange light that turned the night into a day of ash. Sir Julian Thorne stood on the balcony, his nightshirt soaked in smoke, watching the centuries-old oak beams twist and groan under the weight of the heat. He was a man carved from stone and duty, his spine rigid as the pillars of the hall he had sworn to protect. Below him,...
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