The Wistful Dinner
The bell in the tower does not ring; it screams, a sound that is less metal and more bone tearing itself away from the living, and you stand in the center of the great hall with your hands pressed so hard against your own cheeks that the skin begins to whiten and then to bleed, because you know, with a certainty that has settled into your marrow like frost, that the justice of this place is not...
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