The Pale Garden

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2026-08-18 04:35:34 -

The Pale Garden

The feast was not a celebration of life but a banquet for the dead, a grotesque parody of joy held within the stone-walled gut of a castle that seemed less like a home and more like a ribcage waiting to be picked clean by the winter wind. You sat at the long oak table, your small hands folded over the edge, feeling the cold seep through the wool of your tunic, while above you the chandeliers...

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