The Pale Banner
The ink is cold, Elias. You know that, don’t you? You sit in the High Court of Aethelgard, the air thick with the smell of damp stone and the sharper, metallic scent of old blood. The candle before you flickers, casting long, jittery shadows against the vaulted ceiling. You are thirty-two years old, a scribe of little renown, and your hands are steady only because they are trembling so badly....
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