The Faded Bouquet
The banquet hall of the Iron Keep does not smell of roasted boar or spiced wine, as the histories claim it should for such a high-born assembly, but rather of wet stone, old blood, and the metallic tang of fear that has soaked into the very mortar of the walls, a scent that clings to your nostrils like a lover who refuses to leave you alone, and you stand at the edge of the long table, your...
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