The Pale Garden

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2026-08-20 06:37:54 -

The Pale Garden

The banquet hall of the old stone abbey smelled of damp wool, roasted goose, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear, a scent that clung to the back of Thomas Bradshaw’s throat like a fishbone, refusing to be swallowed, refusing to be spit out, as he sat at the head of the long oak table, his eyes fixed on the chalice in his hands, a vessel of tarnished silver that had been passed down through...

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