The Wistful Asylum
The parchment lay flat on the stone table, its edges curling inward like a leaf drying in the sun, and the ink was still wet, glistening with a dark, viscous sheen that smelled faintly of iron and rot. Sir Kaelen, his armor clinking softly with each shift of his weight, read the list of charges against his brother, Aldric, not with the eyes of a judge but with the hollow, desperate focus of a...
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