The Wistful Mirror
The feast was a riot of tallow light and the sharp, metallic scent of roasted venison, a sensory assault that seemed designed to drown out the quiet, terrible truth of your existence. You sat at the far end of the long oak table, a place of honor that felt more like a pedestal for a relic than a seat for a man. Around you, the lords of the Valley of Ashes raised their goblets, their voices...
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