The Pale Dance
The fire in the great hall of the Abbey of St. Jude did not burn with the bright, cheerful orange of a hearth in a merchant’s home. It burned a deep, arterial red, consuming the oak beams with a slow, hungry sigh that echoed through the vaulted stone ceilings. The air was thick with the scent of roasting meat and stale ale, the smell of a feast that had been interrupted, not by death, but by a...
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