The Distant Garden
The feast was a riot of gold and grease. Candles gutted in their brass holders, dripping wax like frozen tears onto the tablecloth. The air was thick with the smell of roasted lamb, stale wine, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Sir Julian stood at the head of the table, his face a mask of ceremonial joy. He smiled. The smile did not reach his eyes. His eyes were flat. They were the eyes of...
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