The Distant Ghost
The great hall of the Citadel of Ironwood did not smell of dust or decay, as one might expect of a place abandoned to the whispers of centuries, but rather of ozone, polished brass, and the faint, metallic tang of old blood that seeps into the pores of stone and refuses to wash out, a scent that clung to the back of my throat like a persistent, bitter aftertaste of a wine I had long since...
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