The Pale Meridian

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2026-08-22 12:18:57 -

The Pale Meridian

The feast hall of Blackwater Keep smelled of roasted boar and stale ale, a heavy, cloying scent that clung to the wool of Elias Thorne’s tunic. He sat at the far end of the long table, his hands resting on the rough-hewn wood, watching the Duke’s men eat with the mechanical efficiency of beasts. Elias was thirty-four years old, a scribe exiled from the capital for the crime of writing truths...

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