The Golden Visit
The damp in the Iron Keep did not smell of rot, but of old iron and the specific, metallic tang of a body slowly drowning in its own fluids. Silas Vane, Warden for twenty-two years, sat on the edge of his narrow cot, his lungs a pair of rusted bellows that struggled to pull air through the narrow passage of his throat. He was forty years old, though the coughing sickness had aged him into a man...
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