The Golden Harbor
The iron gate of the Black Tower groaned against the stone, a sound like a dying man’s last breath, and you stood before it with your hand resting on the hilt of your sword, the leather worn smooth by twenty years of service to the Crown. You were Sir Alaric, forty years old, a knight of the Royal Guard, and your only desire was to secure the King’s pardon for your brother, Thomas, who stood in...
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