The Pale Shadows
The banquet hall of the Ironworks Palace did not smell of food, but of coal dust and the metallic tang of blood that had long since dried into the velvet curtains, a scent that had seeped so deeply into the woven fibers that it now served as the primary perfume of the aristocracy, a pervasive and cloying odor that clung to the skin and the soul alike, much like the fog that rolled in from the...
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