The Faded Bouquet
The banquet hall smells of rotting lilies and wet wool. You sit at the far end of a long, mahogany table that stretches into a darkness which refuses to resolve into walls. The candlelight is thick, amber, and suffocating, casting shadows that move independently of the flames. You are a soldier. You know this by the weight of the medal on your chest, a heavy disc of tarnished silver that pulses...
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