The Wistful Letter
The iron brazier in the center of the great hall was not merely a heater, but a mouth, a vast and circular aperture that breathed out a heat so dry and ancient it felt less like warmth and more like the slow, suffocating pressure of a tomb sealing shut around a living man. Sir Edmund Ashworth stood before it, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword, a blade that had seen three sieges and...
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