The Faded Chronicle
The feast is not a celebration of joy, but a ritual of exhaustion, held in the vaulted stone chamber of the Northern Watch, where the air is thick with the scent of boiled meat, damp wool, and the metallic tang of fear that has seeped into the limestone over centuries. You sit at the head of the long oak table, your armor still clinking softly as you shift, the chainmail chafing against your...
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