The Pale Tale
The banquet hall of the Guild of Silversmiths and Alchemists was a cathedral of sweat and wax, where the air hung thick with the cloying perfume of roasted pheasant and the metallic tang of spilled wine, a suffocating embrace that pressed against the skin like a wet wool cloak in winter. Here, beneath the vaulted ceilings painted with faded allegories of commerce and divine favor, the masters...
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