The Distant Ghost
The feast of the Duke of Normandy was a cacophony of clinking silver and roasted goose, a sensory assault that felt less like celebration and more like a burial rite for the living. You stood in the shadows of the great hall, Elias, a scribe whose ink-stained fingers were now caked with the red dust of the quarry, clutching the silver circlet in your fist until the metal bit into your palm. It...
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