The Pale Banner
The air in the Great Hall of Alderwood Keep does not merely smell of beeswax and stale wine, but of something older, something that settles into the marrow like a fine, grey silt, a substance that is not quite dust but has the weight of forgotten centuries, and you stand at the center of this suffocating sanctity with your hands bound behind your back in chains that bite into the flesh of your...
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