The Pale Door
The feast hall smelled of roasted boar and stale ale, the air thick enough to chew. You sat at the head of the long oak table, your armor clinking softly with every shift of your weight. The torches sputtered, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to reach for your throat. Around you, the lords and ladies of the valley laughed, their voices a cacophony of celebration for a victory that felt...
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