The Pale Mist
The banquet hall of the Ironwood Keep smelled of roasted venison and old, damp stone, a scent that had seeped into the very mortar of the walls over three centuries of unbroken service. Sir Alaric Vane stood at the center of the long table, his tunic stained with the grease of the feast, while the lesser knights and squires around him debated the merits of the new royal tax levies with a fervor...
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