The Wistful Silence
The feast in the keep of Dunmore was a thing of bone and ash. It was not a celebration of harvest, nor of a wedding, but a ritual of endurance, a grim communion of stewed mutton and black bread served in iron bowls that bit into the palms of the men who held them. The air inside the great hall was thick, suspended in a haze of woodsmoke and the metallic tang of old blood, a atmosphere that...
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