The Wistful Show
The banquet hall smelled of roasted venison and old stone, a pungent mixture that seemed to settle in the throat like a heavy cloak. I sat at the far end of the long oak table, my hands wrapped around a cup of mulled wine, watching the steam rise and dissipate into the cold air that seeped through the high, arched windows. Outside, the wind howled against the castle walls, a low, mournful sound...
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