The Faded Portrait
The feast hall of Oakhaven was thick with the smoke of peat fires and the heavy, cloying scent of roasted boar. You sat at the high table, your hands wrapped around a cup of mulled wine, watching the dancers twist beneath the chandeliers. The town had gathered for the Harvest Moon, a tradition so old it predated the stone walls that enclosed the market square. Everyone knew you. Everyone...
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