The Pale Dance
You have been here for three days, and the stone under your feet has begun to feel like skin. It is a cold, damp skin, stretching out beneath the heavy oak planks of the refectory, and it knows the weight of every prisoner who has ever dragged their chain across its surface. The air in the keep is thick with the smell of wet wool and old iron, a scent that has seeped so deeply into your pores...
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