The Pale Garden
The feast in the hall of Blackwood Keep was not a celebration of victory, but a ritual of endurance, a long, tallow-lit vigil against the creeping dark that had settled into the bones of the fortress. The air was thick with the scent of roasted venison, stale ale, and the metallic tang of unwashed bodies, a heavy perfume that clung to the linen tapestries and the polished oak floor. Sir Julian...
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