The Pale Garden
The silver tongs in your hands are cold, colder than the iron of the hearth, and they tremble against the velvet tray. You are Elias Thorne, High Steward of the Pale Court, and you are holding the last of the night’s wine, a vintage from the southern valleys that tastes of rot and copper on the tongue. The hall is full of nobles in black silk, their faces hollowed by the candlelight, but you do...
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