The Golden Greenhouse
The mud of the siege lines was thick with blood and rain, and Sir Ewan felt the weight of his broken armor like a shroud. He was thirty years old, his face a map of scars from a war he had tried to forget, and his hands trembled not from cold but from the sheer, terrible magnitude of the task before him. The Duke’s army had taken the outer walls, and now the executioner stood in the courtyard,...
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