The Wistful Throne
The debt is three hundred crowns, and the winter solstice is nine days away. Malcolm Marsh stood in the center of the granary, the air thick with the damp rot of spoiled barley, and listened to the emissary’s boots scrape against the stone floor. The man, a thick-necked fellow named Halloway, did not look up from the parchment in his hands. He spoke of the Warlord’s patience running thin, of...
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