The Pale Fracture
The hall smells of roasted boar and spilled wine. It is a thick, cloying scent. You stand at the edge of the dais. Your boots are heavy. They are iron-shod. They sink slightly into the polished oak floor. The floor is ancient. It has seen kings. It has seen tyrants. It does not care about you. You are a shield. You are a wall. You are the stone that holds the gate. Around you, the feast roars....
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