The Pale Mist
The banquet hall of the Citadel of Aethelgard was a cathedral of stone and shadow, where the air hung thick with the scent of roasted venison, beeswax, and the metallic tang of old blood that seemed to seep up from the flagstones. Torches sputtered in iron sconces, casting long, trembling reflections against the vaulted ceilings, making the gathered knights and lords appear as a flickering...
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