The Distant Threshold
The iron key bit into the lock with a shriek that cut through the thick, rancid smell of damp wool and old blood. I shoved the door open. The Great Hall was a furnace of noise and heat, the air so heavy with the scent of roasting boar and spilled wine that it felt like breathing in wet sand. King Aldric sat at the high table, his face a mask of polite indifference, while the courtiers crowded...
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