The Distant Garden
The feast was a wound in the dark, a sprawling expanse of tallow light and roasted lamb that smelled of smoke and old sin. We sat in the great hall of the Abbey, the stone walls sweating condensation in the chill November air, while the monks chanted low and distant prayers that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of my bones. I was a soldier, or so the parchment said, but in the eyes of Brother...
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