The Golden Maze
You remember the smell of the rendered fat, that heavy, cloying scent that clings to the wool of your cloak and settles deep into the pores of your skin, a perfume of survival that is also a perfume of sickness, which is how the masters of the Great House have always defined the things that keep you alive, for in this place, survival is not a right but a ration, measured out in spoons of bone...
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