The Pale Verdict
The ink is still wet on this page, and my hand trembles so violently that the letters bleed into one another, a dark, jagged scar on the parchment that mirrors the state of my soul. I am Sir Kaelen, thirty-four years old, a knight of the Iron Guard, writing from the damp, stone-walled cellar of the Oakhaven fortress, where the air smells of mildew and the slow, sweet rot of the dead. It is the...
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