The Golden Suspect
The banquet hall of the Ironworks Guild, a cavernous space where the air hung thick with the scent of roasted boar, stale beer, and the metallic tang of ambition, was illuminated by chandeliers that dropped from the rafters like frozen stars, their crystal prisms catching the flickering light of tallow and reflecting it in a thousand fractured, dancing shards that seemed to hover over the...
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