The Pale Bonsai
The banquet hall of the Blackfriars Keep smelled of roasted boar, stale ale, and the metallic tang of old fear, a scent that clung to the velvet hangings and seeped into the porous stones of the floor where the torchlight flickered in erratic, nervous bursts against the shadows. I stood near the dais, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword, a gesture that was less a promise of protection and...
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