The Pale Meridian
The feast was a riot of salt and smoke. We sat in the long, low hall of the keep, the air thick with the scent of roasting venison and the sharp, medicinal tang of crushed juniper. Torches flickered against the rough-hewn stone, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to breathe with the rhythm of the meal. I ate little. My hands, still stained with the dark, viscous blood of the enemy,...
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