The Distant Crown
The feast was a riot of tallow and roasted marrow, the air thick with the scent of burning fat and the sharp, metallic tang of spilled wine that had stained the stone floor in dark, weeping pools. You sat at the head of the long oak table, your hands buried in your lap, trembling not from the cold that seeped through the floorboards, but from the weight of the silence that pressed against your...
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