The Distant Nightmare

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2026-08-17 23:03:13 -

The broth in the clay pot bubbled with a rhythm that was not quite liquid, a thick, amber sludge that smelled of burnt sage and old blood, and Margaret stood at the edge of the stone hearth in the vast, windowless cellar of the Citadel of Aethelgard, watching the steam rise and twist into shapes that resembled fingers before they dissolved into the damp, cold air. She was not a cook, nor was...

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