The Wistful Atlas
The feast in the village of Oakhaven was a riot of noise and heat, a sprawling, muddy affair that smelled of roasting boar, stale beer, and the unwashed bodies of men who had worked the fields until their backs bled. It was held in the great hall of the local magistrate, a building of rough-hewn stone that seemed to lean in on itself, groaning under the weight of the year’s poor harvest and the...
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