The Faded Chronicle
The hall smelled of roasted pheasant and stale lavender, a thick, cloying scent that seemed to settle into the very stones of the castle, and Margaret stood at the edge of the dais, her fingers trembling so violently that she had to press them flat against the silk of her gown to keep them from shaking the silver goblet in her hand. She watched the Duke of Aveline, a man whose face had become a...
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