The Wistful Show
The feast in the hall of Aldersgate was not a celebration of joy, but a display of teeth. Candles, thick as a man’s thumb, guttered in the draft, casting long, trembling shadows that danced against the rough-hewn oak beams. The air smelled of roasting pork, stale ale, and the metallic tang of fear. Elias Thorne sat at the edge of the long table, his hands folded in his lap, still and pale as...
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