The Wistful Petal
The banquet hall of the High Spire was not a room for eating but a machine for digestion, a vast, circular engine of stone and velvet where the air hung thick with the scent of roasted boar and the metallic tang of old blood, and in the center of this rotating wheel of power sat Commander Elias Thorne, his hands resting on the tablecloth as if they were anchors holding a sinking ship in place,...
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