The Pale Path
The table in the great hall of the keep was groaning under the weight of roasted boar and barrels of ale that smelled of yeast and old stone, and the air was thick with the smoke of tallow candles and the sweat of men who had forgotten their names in the heat of the feast, while in the corner, standing with his back to the fire because the heat felt like an accusation, was Thomas Bradshaw, a...
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