The Courtyard
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A rusted ring-mail plate scrapes stone—the guard’s eyes flash open, the tankard clatters, the horn at his belt blares long into the night; a dozen more spear-points emerge and the hero has no room to spin before they close.
He angles his body sideways, presses against the cold stone, slides inch by inch past the guard’s dangling boots, hoping the wine smell conceals the iron taint of his sword.
You have failed