The Wistful Show
The feast hall of the Order of the Silver Quill smelled of roasted pheasant and beeswax, a thick, cloying sweetness that hung in the air like a heavy shroud. Candles guttered in iron sconces, casting long, trembling shadows that danced across the faces of the high-ranking scribes. They were men of parchment and iron, their robes stitched with silver thread that caught the light and threw it...
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