The Pale Echo
The feast was a riot of silver and smoke. You sat at the head of the long table, though the seat was not meant for you. It was meant for the Magistrate. You wore his robes. They were heavy, lined with fur that had long since shed, smelling of stale tobacco and damp stone. The guests ate. They did not look at you. They looked at the food. They looked at the wine. They looked at the shadows...
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