The Pale Path
The feast in the high tower was a riot of gold and shadow. Candles burned low in iron sconces, dripping wax that hardened into ugly, amber tears on the stone table. The air smelled of roasted pheasant, stale wine, and the metallic tang of old blood. Maud sat at the far end of the long oak table, her hands folded in her lap, fingers pale as the ash in the hearth. She was not invited to speak....
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