The Golden Song
The feast was a thing of rust and candlelight, a grotesque mirror of the old world’s plenty. You sat at the far end of the long oak table in the Hall of St. Jude, the wood scarred by centuries of knives and spilled wine, your armor polished to a dull, protective gleam that felt like a second skin. The air was thick with the smell of roasting boar, heavy spices, and the underlying, sweet rot of...
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