The Wistful Atlas
You stand at the center of the banquet, the air thick with the scent of roasting pheasant and the damp, earthy perfume of the ferns that have broken through the marble floor, creeping up the legs of the oak table where the scholars sit in their heavy velvet robes, their faces pale and illuminated by the strange, bioluminescent glow of the moths that drift in slow, hypnotic circles above the...
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