The Faded Paradox
The hall smells of roasted lamb and old stone, a scent that hangs in the air like a heavy, invisible cloth, pressing against your skin until you can barely breathe. You are standing near the pillar, holding a goblet of wine that has turned the color of dried blood, and you are watching the feast with the detached, analytical eye of a scholar who has spent too long studying the dead. The torches...
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