The Distant Wound
The feast is a slaughter, a red-soaked tableau of excess that spills over the rough-hewn stone tables of the High Hall, where the air is thick with the cloying sweetness of rotting fruit and the metallic tang of old blood, and you sit there, Maren, your hands trembling as you peel the skin from a roasted goose, the grease running down your wrists like liquid gold, a currency you can no longer...
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