The Pale Tower
The feast in the great hall of St. Jude’s was a riot of roasted boar and spiced wine, the air thick with the scent of burning tallow and the low, rumbling drone of hundreds of voices. I sat at the high table, my hands trembling slightly as I reached for the silver goblet, not from cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the secret that had been lodged in my throat for three days. I am a...
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