The Wistful Dinner
The silence in the hall of the White Tower was not an absence of sound, but a presence, thick and viscous, pressing against the eardrums like deep water. I sat alone at the center of the long oak table, my hands resting flat upon the cold wood, fingers splayed as if trying to anchor myself to the material world while the air around me shimmered with the faint, iridescent haze of the Veil. This...
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