The Pale Shadows
The Great Hall of the Citadel of Aethelgard smelled of roasted boar, stale wine, and the heavy, metallic scent of ambition. It was a feast of excess, a tableau of silk and steel that seemed to mock the gray, snow-dusted world beyond the high windows. Sir Julian Thorne sat at the high table, his armor polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the flickering torchlight in jagged, dancing shards....
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