The Faded River
The air in the Great Hall of Aethelgard was not merely still but suspended, a thick, amber viscosity that pressed against the lungs like wet wool, and it was within this suffocating stillness that Sir Julian Vane stood at the edge of the dais, his armor polished to a mirror-like sheen that reflected the distorted, trembling faces of the courtiers who watched him with eyes wide and unblinking, a...
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