The Pale Door
The feast in the Great Hall of Aldenmoor was a thing of excess and iron, a glimmering display of the war machine’s appetite. You sat at the high table, the weight of your armor a familiar, cold companion, while below you the long benches groaned under the mass of the garrison. The air was thick with the scent of roasted venison, stale ale, and the metallic tang of blood that had not quite been...
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