The Pale Garden
The wine in the goblet was dark as bruised plum, thick and viscous, clinging to the crystal with a tenacity that spoke of ages and sorrows past, and I watched it swirl in the dim light of the Great Hall where the banners of House Vane hung like heavy, rotting curtains, blocking out the last sliver of autumn sun that had dared to pierce the stained glass. Around me, the courtiers of the Duke’s...
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