The Pale Bridge
The banquet hall of Aethelgard smells of roasted boar and old wine, a thick, cloying scent that coats the back of your throat and makes it difficult to draw a full breath, yet you stand at the center of the raised dais, the master mason’s chisel still tucked into the leather sash at your hip, your hands trembling not from the heat of the hearth or the potency of the ale, but from the sudden,...
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