The Wistful Atlas
The air in the Hall of Echoes does not smell of dust, as you might expect in a ruin, but of damp wool and the sharp, metallic tang of old blood. You are standing alone in the center of a vast, circular chamber where the walls are made not of stone, but of layered, translucent amber, capturing insects and leaves in a resinous, golden freeze-frame of a century past. The light here is thick,...
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