The Wistful Dinner
The ledger lay open on the oak table, its pages thick with the weight of twenty years of accounts, and you counted the entries with a finger stained by ink and age, each line a small stone in the wall of your reputation. You were Aldric, a knight of the Order of the Silver Oak, and you wanted only the validation of Grand Master Thorne, a desire that had calcified in your chest until it felt...
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