The Distant Garden
The feast is a lie. You know this, but you eat anyway. The meat is gray, the wine tastes of iron, and the men around you are laughing too loud, their faces swollen with cheap ale. You are Elias. You are forty-two. You are the Warden of Blackwood. You want to break them. You want to crush the rebellion that has festered in the damp cells for three weeks. You want to be the fist that ends the...
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