The Golden Mirror
The air in the Hall of Whispers did not merely hang; it stagnated, a thick, golden syrup that coated the lungs of every soul who dared to breathe within its vaulted, obsidian arches, a place where the laws of physics were not so much suspended as dissolved by the sheer, crushing weight of the accumulated sins of the monarchy, a sanctuary built not for prayer but for the meticulous, bureaucratic...
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