The Faded Root
The air in the Great Hall of the Citadel tasted of stale incense and the metallic tang of old blood. It was a feast, or what remained of one, where the tables were groaning under the weight of silver platters that held only ash and the ghosts of roasted pheasant. I sat at the head of the long oak table, my uniform pressed to a severity that bordered on architectural, the brass buttons catching...
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