The Wistful Silence
The feast was a blur of waxen light and heavy, spiced wine, but the noise did not reach the edge of the table where Caelan sat. He held his cup with both hands, the metal warm against his palms, while the rest of the hall roared with the celebration of the harvest. Outside, the wind howled against the stone walls of the keep, a low, persistent moan that sounded like a dying man. Caelan did not...
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