The Wistful Dinner
The feast was a riot of bone and blood. Torches hissed in the iron sconces. Smoke curled through the high beams of the Great Hall, thick and sweet. It tasted of pine resin and old fear. Seraphina sat at the head of the table. Her hands were steady. Her eyes were not. She held the chalice. It was heavy. Gold leaf peeled from the rim. The wine inside was dark. Blacker than the night outside. She...
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