The Faded Quadrant
The feast in the hall of the Abbey of St. Jude was a cacophony of clattering pewter, the sharp tang of roasted boar, and the heavy, perfumed silence of men who had forgotten how to listen. You sat at the high table, your plate untouched, your hands resting on the worn oak, fingers tracing the grain as if seeking a pulse. The air was thick with the smoke of tallow candles and the sweat of thirty...
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