The Faded Bouquet
The feast in the Great Hall of Blackwood Priory was not a celebration of life, but a somber acknowledgment of its decay, a gathering of shadows and candlelight where the air tasted of beeswax, damp stone, and the metallic tang of old blood. Sir Thomas Bradshaw sat at the high table, his armor polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the flickering flames, a man carved from the same unyielding...
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