The Wistful Asylum
The hall smelled of wet wool and burning tallow, a thick, suffocating perfume that clung to the back of Elias Thorne’s throat as he stood at the edge of the banquet table, holding the silver chalice with hands that trembled not from fear, but from a profound, vibrating exhaustion. The Great Hall of the Asylum for the Insane was not built of stone, but of memory and iron, a sprawling, industrial...
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