The Pale Shadows
The hall smells of damp wool and old candle wax, a scent that has soaked into the stone walls over three centuries of winter feasts. You are standing near the tapestries, your hands clasped tightly enough to whiten the knuckles, watching the light flicker against the rough-hewn oak beams. The air is thick with the breath of two hundred souls, a heavy, warm pressure that makes it hard to draw a...
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