The Pale Bonsai
The feast was a cacophony of iron on stone and the wet, heavy tearing of meat from bone, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of every man present in the great hall of the fortress. Sir Thomas Bradshaw sat at the foot of the long oak table, his hands resting on the table’s rough, scarred surface, while the other knights and squires laughed and drank, their voices rising in a chorus of...
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