The Pale Bridge
The banquet hall in the district of Sorrow was not a place where light entered from above, but rather from within, a pulsating, arterial red that seemed to breathe in time with the hundreds of guests who had gathered to celebrate the tenure of Lord Vane, the magistrate who held the city’s pulse in his dry, unyielding hands. I sat at the far end of the long table, a figure so unremarkable that...
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