The Faded Bouquet
The feast was a riot of candlelight and roasted boar, the air thick with the scent of rosemary and the heavy, cloying sweetness of fermented fruit. In the high tower of Blackwood Manor, a house that seemed less built than grown from the surrounding granite and mist, Sir Alaric Vane sat at the head of the long oak table. He was a man of sixty winters, his face a map of deep fissures and pale,...
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