The Pale Bridge
The ink was still wet on the parchment when the first glass shattered, a sharp, crystalline scream that cut through the heavy, wine-scented air of the Hall of Whispers. I watched the shard spin, catching the light of a thousand beeswax candles, before it struck the flagstone floor with a sound like a dying breath. Lord Alistair did not look up from his goblet. He merely turned his eyes, pale...
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