The Wistful Cipher
The feast in the great hall of Oakhaven was a symphony of roasted pork and stale wine, the air thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and the smoke of tallow candles that flickered against the stone walls. Elias Thorne sat at the far end of the long table, his fingers gripping the edge of the rough-hewn oak until his knuckles turned white, watching the village elder, Sir Aldric, raise a goblet...
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