The Wistful Skyline
The feast is a riot of gold leaf and roasted swan, the air thick with the cloying sweetness of spiced wine and the heavy, metallic scent of fear that hangs beneath the velvet drapes, and you sit at the low table in the shadow of the great stone hearth, your small hands trembling not from the cold but from the terrible, humming pressure in your chest that feels less like a heartbeat and more...
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