The Pale Banner
The feast in the Guild Hall was a cacophony of clattering pewter and the heavy, cloying scent of roasted goose and stale ale, a sensory assault that did little to warm the hollow pit in Thomas Bradshaw’s stomach as he sat at the far end of the long table, his fingers trembling slightly around a cup of watered wine. The Great Ledger, the massive tome that recorded the debts and credits of every...
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