The Wistful Saga
The feast is a roar of white noise, a kaleidoscope of spun sugar and salted meats that blurs into a single, indistinct smear of gold. You are seated at the far end of the long table, your hands folded tightly in your lap, the wood beneath your fingers cold and unyielding. The air is thick with the scent of roasted boar and burning tallow, a heavy, cloying perfume that sits in the throat like a...
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