The Pale Garden
The smell of the rotting apples is the first thing you notice, not the blood, which is still wet and bright against the stone floor of the Great Hall, nor the screaming of the guards who are being dragged away by the shadows that have no faces, but the cloying, sweet, putrid scent of the orchard harvest that has been left to spoil in the barrels by the window, a smell that has permeated the...
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