The Pale Bridge

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2026-08-21 20:56:34 -

The Pale Bridge

The hall smelled of roasted boar and stale wax. It was the Feast of St. Jude, and the air was thick enough to chew. Margaret stood by the hearth, her hands folded in her lap, watching the shadows dance against the stone walls. She was a woman of forty, though she looked older. Her face was a map of lines that had not been smoothed by sleep. Around her, the lords and ladies of the Count’s domain...

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