The Distant Temple
"Cut it down, Sir Aldric, or we hang your wife." The King’s voice was not loud, but it carried the weight of the iron crown he wore, a weight that seemed to press the air out of the banquet hall, leaving only the dry scrape of silver on porcelain and the low, hungry murmur of three hundred courtiers. Aldric stood at the end of the long oak table, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword,...
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