The Distant Garden
The banquet hall of the White Tower smelled of roasted swan and old stone, a scent that seemed to hang in the air like a veil of grey smoke, thick and unyielding. I sat at the far end of the long oak table, my hands folded neatly in my lap, watching the servants move with a choreographed grace that felt almost mechanical in its precision. The candles burned low, their flames trembling in the...
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