The Faded River

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2026-08-20 15:59:12 -

The Faded River

The feast was a roar of iron on wood. Candlelight trembled in the draft. I watched the smoke. It curled. It died. The hall smelled of roasted boar and stale sweat. My father, Thomas, sat at the head. He did not eat. He carved a piece of oak. The knife was sharp. My hand was not. I was the smith. He was the lord. We were the same. We were the same. The guests laughed. They drank. They did not...

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