The Pale Dance
The harvest festival at the village of Oakhaven was a cacophony of roasted pork, spiced wine, and the heavy, cloying scent of overripe apples that hung in the autumn air like a threat, and it was in the center of this chaotic, sweating mass of wool and wood and breath that Master Elias Thorne stood, his hands resting not on his sword, which he had long since left rusting in the cellar, but on...
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