The Faded Bouquet
The banquet hall of the Iron Gate is not a place for the living, yet you are there. You sit at the long oak table, your hands folded beneath the tablecloth. You are a soldier of the Order of the Pale Veil. Your uniform is pressed, your collar stiff, your boots polished to a mirror shine that reflects the candlelight. The air is thick with the scent of beeswax and old blood. Around you, the...
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