The Golden Visit
The letter lay on the oak table, its seal broken, the ink still wet with the smell of iron and rain. Sir Aldric read the words three times, each pass weighing heavier than the last, until the parchment felt less like paper and more like a slab of lead pressed against his chest. It was a summons, or perhaps a pardon, the distinction blurred by the Chancellor’s elegant, cruel script. He folded...
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