The Pale Shadows
The parchment was heavy, its ink still wet and smelling of iron and vinegar. Sabine Arnold stood in the center of the hall, the weight of the banquet pressing against her ribs like a physical bruise. She was thirty-two, a woman carved from the same cold stone as the estate, and she felt the first cold prickle of her own reflection lagging behind her movements. The rule was simple, though the...
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