The Pale Tower
The hall smelled of roasted lamb and damp wool, a thick, cloying scent that seemed to cling to the inside of my nose like a second skin. We had gathered in the old manor house on the edge of the moor, a sprawling, grey-eyed structure that had watched over the valley for three generations. It was a night of high spirits, of clinking glasses and forced laughter that rang too loudly in the high...
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