The Golden Song
The banquet was not held in a hall, but in the hollow of a tree so ancient that its roots had strangled the concept of the ground. The air smelled of ozone and roasted chestnuts, a scent that should have been comforting but instead felt like the static charge before a lightning strike. Dr. Arthur Penhaligon sat at the head of a long table carved from a single piece of bone-white wood, his...
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