The Distant Whispers
The feast was loud. It was too loud. The hall of the White Tower smelled of roasted pork, stale wine, and the damp wool of too many bodies pressed together. The air was thick. It hung heavy over the tables. It pressed against the skin. Maren sat at the far end. She was small. She was quiet. She held the book. The book was leather-bound. The cover was cracked. The pages were soft. They felt like...
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