The Pale Banner
The banquet hall of the St. Jude’s Institute for the Chronically Ill smelled of roasted lamb, damp wool, and the metallic tang of old fear. It was a room designed to look like power, with its vaulted ceilings painted in peeling gold leaf and its long tables draped in white linen that had seen better decades, but it held only the hollows of men who had once been warriors and now were merely...
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