The Wistful Throne
The frost of the year 1347 had a texture like ground glass, scratching against the iron scales of Sir Kaelen’s armor as he rode into Oakhaven, a village that seemed to be slowly dissolving into the grey mist of the winter solstice. He was thirty-two years old, a knight of the Iron Guard, and the mandate in his saddlebag was not merely a task but a lifeline, a concrete promise that the...
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