The Pale Letter
The feast in the Great Hall of the Abbey was not a celebration of joy, but a grim ritual of survival, a heavy, smoky affair where the air hung thick with the scent of roasting venison and the damp, earthy smell of the stone walls that wept condensation onto the floor. It was the winter of the old ways, a time when the world outside the high, barred windows was a void of snow and silence, and...
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