The Golden Farce
The fire did not roar; it whispered, a dry, papery hiss that swallowed the sound of my own breathing. I stood in the center of the great oak table, the wood blackened and weeping sap, while the ceiling above was not a roof but a swirling vortex of stars that moved with the slow, deliberate grace of molten gold. This was the Hall of Echoes, a place that existed only when the boundary between the...
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