The Pale Dance

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2026-08-18 16:21:06 -

The Pale Dance

The air in the great hall of the Citadel did not smell of incense or rot, but of honey and crushed thyme, a cloying sweetness that clung to the back of the throat like a warning. Aldous sat at the head of the long oak table, his hands folded over a bowl of pomegranate seeds, their ruby skins slick and wet under the flickering torchlight. He was a man of the scales, a scribe of the Merchant’s...

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