The Golden Farce
The iron staff lay across Kael’s lap, cold and heavy, its surface pitted with the rust of a hundred rainy marches. He rubbed his thumb over a hairline crack near the handle, a flaw he had noticed three days ago and could not bring himself to report. Outside the window, the courtyard of Vane Castle was empty save for a single grey dog, thin as a whip, sniffing at the mud. Kael was forty years...
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