The Pale Letter
The feast was a riot of tallow and smoke, the air thick enough to chew, carrying the sour tang of stale wine and the heavy, cloying scent of roasted mutton. They sat in the long hall of the keep, the stone walls sweating condensation that dripped onto the flagstones with a rhythmic, hollow tap. It was a night of false warmth, where the firelight danced in the eyes of the men, making them look...
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