The Distant Metropolis
The room is thick with the scent of spilled wine and the heavy, cloying perfume of lilies that have been forced to bloom too soon, a scent that clings to the back of your throat like a bad taste that refuses to dissipate. You are standing at the center of the table, your hands steady but your mind unraveling, holding the chalice that your father left you, the one he claimed was forged from the...
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