The Distant Summer
The soup is cold. You know this not by taste, but by the way the fat has congealed into a white, waxy skin on the surface, a shield against the air. You sit at the head of the long oak table in the great hall of the keep, the wood beneath your hands rough and worn by centuries of elbows. You are the Elder, the one who has survived the siege, the frost, and the slow rot of the years. You are the...
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