The Distant Journey
The banquet hall smelled of roasted goose and wet wool, a thick, cloying mixture that sat heavy in the lungs of every guest gathered beneath the vaulted ceilings of the Ashworth Manor. It was a grand affair, the kind of industrial excess that defined our age, where brass chandeliers dripped light onto tables groaning under the weight of silver and porcelain. I sat at the far end of the long oak...
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