The Wistful Witness
Do you remember the weight of a loaf that does not rot? I held the Silent Bread in my left pocket, a dense, warm mass against my hip that hummed with a low, persistent vibration, like a cat purring inside a wall. It was the Year of the Iron Crown, and I stood in the Great Hall of the High King, my armor polished to a mirror shine that reflected the flickering torchlight and the pale, hungry...
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