The Pale Bridge

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2026-08-20 03:16:57 -

The Pale Bridge

The feast was a rotting thing. You sat at the head of the table, though you had not asked to sit there. The wood was black with age, slick with the grease of a thousand banquets that had never quite ended. The air smelled of wet wool and old iron. You were a soldier. Or perhaps you had been. The memory was a bruise you kept pressing with a thumb to see if it still hurt. It did. Around you, the...

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