The Wistful Show
The blade bit into the wet earth, its tip vanishing into the mud of the market square. Aldric’s hand trembled, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of the steel he had carried for twenty years. He stood in the center of the circle, the magistrate’s son bound before him, spitting blood and curses. The air smelled of iron and rot, the distinct scent of the plague that had strangled the city...
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