The Pale Verdict
Constance Yarrow counts the hours. It is a habit born of the watchtower, a need to measure time against the wall of the castle. She has counted the hours of her marriage, the hours of her service, the hours since the first drop of black fluid appeared on the stone floor of the Great Hall. It is the year 1348, and the air in the hall smells of wet wool and old iron. You are a sworn knight of the...
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