The feast is loud. Too loud. You sit at the long table in the Guild Hall, the oak scarred by centuries of elbows and spilled ale. The air smells of roasted pork, stale beer, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. You are not supposed to be here. You are a clerk. A scribe. You count coins for the Magistrate. You do not drink. You do not laugh. But tonight, the wine is red as a fresh wound, and...
The smell is antiseptic. It is sharp. It cuts the air. You are in the cellar. The walls are stone. They weep. Condensation drips. It ticks against the flagstones. A rhythmic sound. Like a clock. But no clock moves. Time is static here. Or perhaps it is looping. You do not know. You are Margaret. You are the Keeper. You hold the jar. It is glass. Thick. Heavy. Inside is the elixir. It glows. A...
The rain had not stopped in three days, and the stone of the High Hall wept with a cold that no amount of tallow could drive from the bones. It was a sound like the grinding of millstones, a low, continuous moan that seemed to rise from the very bedrock of the castle, echoing off the vaulted ceilings where the tapestries, once vibrant with the heraldry of the Ashworths, now hung in limp,...
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