The Golden Master
The feast in the Hall of Aethelgard was a cacophony of silverware and laughter, a blinding spectacle of roasted swan and spun gold that did nothing to soothe the cold, vibrating hum in Elias Thorne’s teeth. He sat at the Duke’s right hand, a position of honor that felt increasingly like a noose, watching Valerius drain his cup of wine with the slow, predatory precision of a man who knew exactly...
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