The Wistful Show
The great hall of Aethelgard was a cathedral of noise and grease, the air thick with the smoke of tallow candles and the heavy, cloying scent of roasted boar that seemed to coat the back of the throat. Sir Kaelen of the Iron Guard stood rigid near the pillar, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture of perfect, unyielding discipline, his eyes fixed not on the lord’s table but on the...
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