The Wistful Show
The banquet hall of the keep smelled of roasted venison and wet wool, a thick, cloying scent that seemed to hang in the air like a physical weight, pressing against the lungs and dulling the senses in a way that felt deliberate, as if the very stones were conspiring to silence the truth before it could be spoken. I sat at the lower end of the long oak table, my plate untouched, my eyes fixed on...
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