The Faded Photograph
The feast was not a celebration of joy but a ritual of endurance, a heavy, suffocating blanket of roasted meat and dark ale that settled into the bones of the hall, and you sat at the edge of the long table, your fingers stained with grease and the remnants of the last man who had shared your skin, your gaze fixed not on the lord’s face but on the small, circular object resting in the palm of...
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