The Golden Greenhouse
The feast is a riot of wax and tallow, a suffocating heat that presses against your skin like a wet wool blanket, smelling of roasted boar, spilled wine, and the heavy, cloying sweetness of overripe fruit. You sit at the edge of the long oak table, a place that is neither honor nor disgrace, merely a necessity, and your hand rests on the hilt of the iron-banded sword that has grown so heavy...
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