The Wistful Asylum
The air in the solar of the King’s Hall was thick with the scent of wet wool and old parchment, a heavy, suffocating blanket that seemed to press against the inside of Silas’s skull. He stood in the shadows near the great hearth, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, watching the Duke of Avarice, Lord Malachai, sit upon the high-backed chair of judgment. Malachai was a man of considerable...
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