The Golden Farce
The long table in the great hall of Dunmore Keep groaned under the weight of roasted boar and silver platters, the air thick with the scent of spiced wine and the damp stone that seemed to breathe around them. Sir Aldric, forty years old and hardened by two decades of service to the Order of the Silver Hand, sat at the head of the table, his hands resting on the oak as if they were the only...
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