The Golden Echoes
The feast was a cacophony of clinking silver and roasting meats, the air thick with the scent of rosemary and the damp, earthy rot of the cellar where the old wine slept. We were gathered in the great hall of Blackwood Manor, a place that had seen three centuries of feasts and funerals, and I sat at the far end of the long oak table, my fingers wrapped around a cup of mulled wine that had long...
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