The Pale Bonsai

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2026-08-19 08:33:01 -

The Pale Bonsai

The feast is loud. It is a wall of sound that presses against your eardrums, a physical weight of clinking silver and raucous laughter. You sit at the long oak table in the hall of the Guildhall. The air smells of roasted goose, stale ale, and unwashed bodies. You do not eat. You hold the small, pale bonsai in your lap. Its roots are bound in a square of silk. It is the only quiet thing in the...

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