The Pale Banner
The air in the Hall of Whispers tastes of iron and old blood. You stand in the center of the floor, your boots sunk into the plush red carpet. Around you, the feast continues. The sound is a low, continuous roar, like a distant engine turning over in a dream. Crystal clinks against crystal. Silverware scrapes against porcelain. The light is pale, sickly, filtering down from a ceiling lost in...
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