The Pale Bonsai
The feast in the Great Hall of the Citadel of Ostrava was not a celebration of life, but a grotesque parody of it, where the roasted pheasants gaped with mouths that seemed to mimic the silent screams of the prisoners in the lower dungeons, and the wine, thick as arterial blood, pooled in goblets of cut crystal that caught the flickering torchlight and shattered it into a thousand dancing,...
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