The Golden Suspect
The second year of the siege had settled into the bones of the Ashworth Manor like damp rot, a pervasive chill that no amount of burning furniture could dislodge, and now, as the outer walls groaned under the sustained fire of the enemy’s heavy cannons, you stand in the great hall with your hands trembling so violently that the hilt of your sword feels like a living thing slipping from your...
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