The Distant Nightmare
The rot began at the wrist on the morning the King’s cough first turned wet. You are Sir Kaelen, forty years in the Royal Guard, and the blackening flesh of your left hand is not a wound but a vessel. The court physicians call it the Grey Blight, a supernatural affliction that marks the body as a conduit for the sovereign’s dying spirit. You know the rules, learned in the dark corridors of the...
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