The Pale Dance
The feast in the great hall of the Whitmore estate was not a celebration of joy, but a performance of order, a rigid architecture of silver, wax, and silence that held back the encroaching chaos of the outside world. Thomas Bradshaw sat at the far end of the long oak table, his hands folded in his lap, watching the candlelight tremble against the stone walls. He was a man who had learned to...
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