The Faded Bouquet

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2026-08-24 09:41:32 -

The Faded Bouquet

Vane. The name cut through the roar of the banquet hall, sharp as a blade drawn from a scabbard. Thomas Vane did not turn. He sat at the head of the table, his left hand bound in iron, the metal cold against the fever of his skin. The Black Friars’ feast was a spectacle of excess, a mountain of roasted swan and spiced wine, yet the air tasted of rot, a sweet, cloying decay that clung to the...

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