The Faded Frontier
The feast was a wound in the dark. Candles burned low in the great hall of Thornwall Keep, dripping wax like slow, amber tears onto the stone floor. The air was thick with the smell of roasted goose, spiced wine, and the metallic tang of fear. Sir Aldous sat at the head of the table. He did not eat. His hands, rough and stained with the earth of his life’s labor, rested on the oak. They...
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