The Pale Verdict
The wine was spilled on the velvet tablecloth, a dark stain spreading like a bruise under the chandelier light. General Silas Vane stood at the center of the Great Hall, his scarred hand resting on the pommel of his sword, watching the King’s gaze slide over him with the detached assessment of a merchant inspecting a damaged crate. The banquet was a spectacle of excess, forty-year-old Silas...
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