The Wistful Dinner
The chalice is cracked. You know this. You have known it since the moment the first hairline fracture appeared across the gold rim, a whisper of failure in the metal that you had spent three years refining. It sits on the workbench now, cold and inert, waiting for the judgment of the Guild Master. The air in the shop is thick with the smell of sawdust and hot brass, a scent that has soaked into...
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