The Wistful Skyline
The feast is a lie told by the firelight. You sit at the head of the long oak table, the wood dark and slick with wax, the air thick with the scent of roasting boar and old incense. The torches gutter in the draft, casting long, trembling shadows that dance against the stone walls of the keep. They are singing. The men of your guard, the lieutenants, the scribes, they are singing a song of...
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