The Distant Joke
The rune on the altar of St. Jude did not look like a curse. It looked like a joke, a squiggling line of ink that seemed to shift in the candlelight, mocking the gravity of the room. Sir Aldric, forty years old and already feeling the rust in his joints, stared at the mark etched into the cold stone. He had come for this specific mark, the "Joke of Kings," whispered about in taverns from here...
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