The Pale Banner
The feast in the Hall of Whispers was not a celebration of victory, but a funeral for the old world, and the air within the stone walls was thick enough to chew, heavy with the scent of roasted venison, stale wine, and the metallic tang of fear that clung to the skin of every noble who had gathered to drink the blood of the dying era. Sir Thomas Bradshaw, the Keeper of the Archives, sat at the...
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