The Wistful Witness
The feast at the Hall of Blackthorn was not a celebration of joy but a desperate, noisy attempt to drown out the silence that had settled over the valley like a thick, gray shroud, and the candles, hundreds of them, burned with a steady, trembling orange glow that seemed to eat the darkness inch by slow inch, illuminating the faces of the lords and ladies who feasted on roasted swan and spiced...
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