The Wistful Asylum

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2026-08-19 05:14:15 -

The hall smelled of roasted venison and wet wool, a heavy, cloying scent that clung to the back of the throat. It was the midwinter feast in the valley of Oakhaven, a tradition so old that the stones of the great hall seemed to remember the weight of the tables. I sat at the high table, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword, not out of need, but out of habit. The air was thick with the smoke...

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