The Distant Affair
The feast is a wound that will not close, a banquet of bone and blood where the air tastes of iron and stale wine, and you sit at the head of the long oak table, your hands wrapped around a cup of dark ale, watching the mist that curls off the surface like the breath of the dead, while the torches on the stone walls flicker and die, leaving you in a darkness that feels not empty but heavy, a...
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