The Wistful Atlas
The table groaned under the weight of silver and crystal, a cacophony of clinking stems and heavy plates that sounded less like celebration and more like the grinding of tectonic plates shifting beneath a frozen sea. It was a feast of such opulence that it seemed to defy the very air of the room, thick with the scent of roasted pheasant, spiced wine, and the metallic tang of old blood that...
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