The Distant Garden
The feast is not a meal but a ceremony of the body’s surrender, a sprawling tableau of roasted boar and spiced ale that fills the great hall of the Ironwood Bastion with the heavy, cloying scent of fat and smoke. You sit at the high table, your armor left outside in the rain, your skin raw and trembling beneath the coarse wool of your tunic, while the other soldiers laugh with the raucous,...
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