The Wistful Show
The hall was thick with the smell of roasting boar and unwashed bodies, a heat that sat heavy on Elias’s chest as he stood by the trestle table. He was forty-two, and his knees ached with the damp cold that crept up from the stone floor despite the roaring fires. Across the room, Duke Aethelgard raised a goblet of wine, the liquid catching the torchlight like blood. "Elias!" the Duke called...
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