The Faded Masquerade
The banquet hall of the Citadel of Aethelgard did not smell of roasted boar or spiced wine, but of ozone, heated copper, and the faint, metallic tang of old blood that had long since dried into the grain of the oak floorboards, a scent that clung to the nostrils of every guest like a persistent, unwelcome guest at their own table, for the air here was not merely recycled but curated, filtered...
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