The Faded Root
The pardon for the debt, or the head for the crime? Sir Kaelen stood at the edge of the high table, his armor still stained with the mud of the northern campaign, while the King’s jesters tossed roasted peacocks to the hounds beneath the floorboards. The air in the throne room was thick with the smell of roasting meat and stale wine, a heavy, cloying weight that pressed against Kaelen’s lungs,...
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