The Wistful Throne
The order was written on a scrap of vellum, the ink smeared by mud and sweat, listing the names of the dead with a clerk’s indifference. You held it in your left hand, the paper damp and softening, while your right hand gripped the hilt of a sword that felt heavier than iron had any right to be. The Shattered Vale smelled of wet earth and ozone, a sharp, metallic tang that coated the back of...
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