The Wistful Witness
The black ichor did not drip; it oozed, a viscous, tar-like substance that defied the gravity of the dungeon floor, spreading in slow, deliberate tendrils across the flagstones of the Iron Court’s deepest cell. Sir Aldric Vane, the Justiciar, stood before the execution block, his hand steady on the pommel of his sword, watching the substance pulse with a faint, rhythmic luminescence that...
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