The Pale Dance
The wind in the valley did not howl. It whispered. It scraped against the stone like a fingernail on a blackboard. A dry, persistent sound. I sat in the corner of the great hall. The torches burned low. The shadows stretched long across the flagstones. They pooled around my boots. I watched them. I did not move. My hand rested on the pommel of my sword. The leather was worn smooth. Soft. Like...
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