The Distant Legend
The room is thick with the scent of roasted lamb and beeswax, a heavy, cloying perfume that seems to settle into the pores of the guests who sit at the long oak table. You are not a guest, though you wear the same dark suit as the others, and your hands are folded neatly in your lap, still and pale as ash. You are the steward, the one who pours the wine, the one who clears the plates, the one...
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