The Wistful Dinner
The fire in the great hall had not been lit in three days, and the cold that settled into the stone floor was not merely a temperature but a presence, a heavy, wet hand pressed against the chest of every man who stood within the arches of the King’s court. I stood at the back, near the pillar where the shadows pooled thickest, holding a bundle of dried heather and rosemary in my left hand, the...
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