The Golden Cellar
The steward’s voice cut through the roar of the feast like a knife through wet wool. "Sir Alaric." The name hung in the air, heavy and cold, amidst the clatter of silver and the stench of roasted boar. Alaric did not look up. He kept his eyes on the goblet in his hand, the wine dark and still, and felt the weight of the stone table against his forearms. Around him, the Golden Cellar pulsed with...
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