The Pale Dance
The soup was thick, a viscous slurry of barley and mutton that clung to the silverware with the tenacity of a widow’s grief, and Major Elias Thorne held the spoon with a hand that trembled not from cold, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that had descended upon the High Table. "You are eating with the left hand, Major," said Lord Vane, his voice a dry rasp of gravel under a...
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