The Wistful Dinner
Colm Mahoney had served the Crown for twelve years, a fact that weighed on him more heavily than the iron pauldrons he had worn through three winters of border skirmishes. He stood in the temple courtyard, the warm November air settling on his skin like a damp cloth, while the vegetable cart’s chant drifted up from the alley below, a rhythmic, guttural sound that seemed to mock the stillness of...
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