The Wistful Dinner
The dream is not a sequence of events but a single, sustained pressure against the back of your eyes, a dull, rhythmic thumping that feels less like sleep and more like the slow, grinding rotation of a millstone in a cellar far below the floorboards of your mind. You are standing in the Great Hall of the Keep, a structure of black stone and heavy timber that smells of damp wool, old tallow, and...
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