The Faded Attic
The banquet hall smells of wax and old blood, a cloying scent that clings to the back of your throat like a secret you cannot swallow. You stand in the shadows of the high ceiling, where the chandeliers drip with crystal tears that catch the gaslight and fracture it into a thousand jagged shards. It is the Industrial Court of Lord Ashworth, a palace of iron and steam that has swallowed the old...
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