The Golden Downtown
The feast is not a celebration, but a fever. It sits in the center of the stone hall, a grotesque amalgamation of roasted pork, dark bread, and stale ale, steaming under the weight of a chandelier that has not been cleaned since the reign of your grandfather. You are seated on a bench of rough-hewn oak, your spine pressed against the cold wood, your hands trembling not from hunger, which is a...
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