The Wistful Saga
The feast in the great hall of Blackwood Manor was a thing of such suffocating opulence that the air itself seemed to curdle with the weight of the roasted boar and the heavy, cloying scent of spiced wine, and Thomas Bradshaw stood in the shadow of a pillar, his hands trembling not from the cold that bit at his knuckles but from a primal, instinctual hunger that had nothing to do with the food...
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