The Golden Song
The wine in the glass is the color of a bruise that refuses to fade, and the air in the great hall is thick with the scent of roasted boar and damp stone, a smell that has settled into the fibers of your cloak over the last decade of wandering through this impossible, timeless place. You stand at the edge of the long table, a merchant of small, intricate clocks and mechanisms, your hands steady...
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