The Pale Shadows
The fire roared. It ate the oak. It ate the silence. It ate the years. Marcus sat at the head of the table. His hands were steady. They had not trembled in a decade. Not since the war. Not since the mud of Flanders turned his blood to sludge. He watched the flames lick the iron grate. They were orange. They were white. They were hungry. The house was full. Too full. The air was thick with smoke...
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