The Pale Garden

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2026-08-18 02:20:33 -

The Pale Garden

The feast was not held in a hall, but in the mouth of the earth. We sat upon rough-hewn stone benches that circled a central table of dark, polished oak, which seemed to rise from the floor like a slab of obsidian. The air smelled of wet moss, old blood, and the sweet, cloying rot of overripe fruit that no one seemed to eat. Torches sputtered in iron sconces, casting long, trembling shadows...

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