The Faded Root
The feast was a riot of stained glass and roasted goose, a sensory overload that felt less like celebration and more like a warning. We sat in the Great Hall of the Infirmary of Saint Jude, a stone fortress of healing that smelled perpetually of lavender, boiled wool, and the coppery tang of old blood. I was seated at the long oak table, my hands folded in my lap, watching the wax candles...
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