The Wistful Saga
The banquet hall in the village of Oakhaven was not built for joy. It was a long, low structure of slate and timber, smelling of damp wool and stale beer, where the light from the oil lamps struggled against the creeping darkness of the industrial age. You sat at the far end of the table, your hands folded in your lap, feeling the weight of the coat you wore. It was a heavy thing, woven from...
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