The Pale Bridge

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2026-08-21 21:45:31 -

The Pale Bridge

The feast hall of the Citadel of St. Jude smelled of roasting boar and wet iron. It was a smell that clung to the inside of the nose, thick and undeniable, a scent that spoke of survival in a world that had long since ceased to care for the living. Lord Ashworth sat at the head of the long oak table, his hands resting on the wood, palms open, fingers splayed. Before him lay a bowl of honeyed...

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