The Wistful Crossroads

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2026-08-20 05:42:38 -

The banquet hall smelled of beeswax and old blood. Margaret stood at the edge of the long oak table. She held the glass jar tight in her hands. The glass was cold. It bit into her palms. Inside the jar, the nightingale sang. It was a small, frantic sound. It sounded like tearing silk. Lord Ashworth sat at the head of the table. He did not look up. He carved a leg of venison. The knife made a...

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