The Distant Nightmare
The King’s finger is a sword, and you are the scabbard. You stand before the High Court in the Hall of Whispers, where the air is thick with the scent of ozone and old blood. It is the age of iron and starlight, a time when magic bleeds from the stones and the crown sits heavy as a coffin lid. You are not a lord. You are not a sorcerer. You are Thomas Bradshaw, a keeper of the King’s private...
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