The Faded Quadrant

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2026-08-19 05:51:46 -

The feast was a sea of gold and blood. Torches burned low in the iron sconces, casting long, trembling shadows against the damp stone walls of the keep. Sir Thomas Bradshaw sat at the high table, his plate untouched. He watched the dancers. They moved like water, fluid and indifferent, their silk gowns swirling around their ankles. The air smelled of roasting meat, stale wine, and the metallic...

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