The Golden Circuit
The feast is a lie. That is the first thing you must understand, Thomas. Or perhaps it is the last, depending on how much time you have left to spare. The hall smells of roasted boar and damp wool, of beeswax candles burning low in the iron sconces. The air is thick, heavy with the breath of three hundred men who claim to be your brothers in arms. They laugh. They pour ale from wooden mugs...
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