The Faded Quadrant
The feast is a thing of terrible beauty, you know that, sitting there in the corner of the great hall while the air grows thick with the scent of roasting lamb and the smoke of a hundred candles that have been burning since the moon rose high in the sky, and you are the one who holds the ledger, the one who knows the weight of every coin spent on this excess, and you feel the eyes of the Lord...
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