The Wistful Show
The feast was a riot of gold and shadow. Candles guttered in iron sconces, casting long, trembling fingers across the stone walls of Blackwood Manor. The air smelled of roasted boar, rosemary, and the sharp, metallic tang of old blood that seemed to seep from the very mortar. Sir Julian Ashworth stood at the head of the table, his posture rigid, his eyes fixed on the chalice before him. He did...
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