The Golden Farce
The feast was not a celebration of harvest, but of containment. In the high, stone-walled hall of the Keep at Avelon, the air hung heavy with the scent of roasted boar and beeswax candles. The light did not dance; it pooled in thick, amber lakes on the floorboards, illuminating the dust motes that drifted with the slow, deliberate grace of suspended time. At the center of this circular room sat...
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