The Wistful Dinner
The feast hall of Blackwood Manor was thick with the scent of roasting boar and beeswax, a heavy, golden air that seemed to press down upon the guests like a physical weight. Sir Aldric sat at the head of the long oak table, his hands resting on the polished surface, fingers slightly curled. He looked at his hands as if they belonged to someone else, observing the tremor that had begun three...
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