The Pale Garden

added blog Literature

2026-08-22 00:01:02 -

The Pale Garden

The banquet hall smelled of roasted pheasant and old stone, a scent that had settled into the grout of the Keep of Saint Aldous for three hundred years. I sat at the long oak table, my fingers wrapped around a silver goblet, feeling the cold metal bite into the skin. My knuckles were white, not from the chill of the wine, but from the effort of keeping my hands still. Across the table, Lord...

0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews