The Pale Fracture
The iron tastes of blood and old rust as you bite down on the leather strap, your teeth aching with the sudden, violent pressure of the guard’s boot against your knee. You are on the floor of the Great Hall, the stone cold and damp against your cheek, the air thick with the scent of sweat, pine resin, and the metallic tang of fear that hangs over the assembly like a funeral shroud. Around you,...
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