The Pale Tower
The banquet hall of the Citadel of Aethelgard was not a place built for comfort, but for the display of power, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into a darkness that seemed to breathe with a faint, oily mist. Candles the size of a man’s forearm burned in iron sconces, casting long, trembling shadows that danced across the tapestries depicting the wars of old kings. The air smelled of roasted...
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