The Wistful Ashes
The Great Hall of Oakhaven did not smell of rot, nor of the damp earth that had swallowed the rest of the county, but of yeast, of rendered fat, and of the sweet, cloying perfume of preserved violets. It was a feast that defied the logic of the plague, a banquet set for a hundred where the air itself seemed to thicken with the weight of consumption. In the center of this impossible abundance...
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