The Wistful Mirror
"The Order is denied." The King’s voice was thin, stretched over the noise of the feast like a wire about to snap. Sir Kaelen stood before the throne, the torchlight catching the jagged white of the scar that ran from his left ear to his jaw. He did not blink. The hall was warm, thick with the smell of roasting pork, stale beer, and the unwashed bodies of three hundred men who had not seen a...
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