The Pale Verdict
The castle breathed. I heard it. A low, rhythmic exhalation through the cracks in the stone. Dust motes danced in the shafts of pale afternoon light that cut through the high, arched windows. They were not dust. They were memories, suspended. I stood before the High Table. The wood was black with age. It was worn smooth by centuries of elbows, of nervous hands, of blood that had long since...
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