The Wistful Dinner
The banquet hall of the Guild of Iron and Stone smelled of roasted lamb, stale ale, and the metallic tang of anxiety. It was a sprawling, vaulted space in the heart of the old city, where the cobblestones outside had been worn smooth by centuries of carts hauling ore. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the far end of the long oak table, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the wood. He was a man...
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