The Wistful Dinner

added blog Literature

2026-08-24 03:33:05 -

The hourglass on the desk had lost three grains of sand in the last minute. Sir Eamon counted them. One for the hour. Two for the fever. Three for the silence. He was forty years old, and his hands, which had held a longsword against the French and a plowshare against the Irish, were now steady only because he forced them to be. The Black Hound was a spirit of the plague, a thing of smoke and...

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