The Faded Frontier
The knife bit deep into the roast pheasant, shearing through skin that glistened with a wet, black sheen. Elias Thorne cut a slice, the meat trembling on the plate like a bruise, and watched the juice pool. It was not blood. It was thick, dark, and smelled of wet earth and copper. The banquet hall of Oakhaven smelled of roasting meat and stale wine, a heavy, cloying scent that clung to the back...
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