The Golden Echoes

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2026-08-19 18:50:39 -

The Golden Echoes

The banquet hall of the Spire did not smell of food, but of ozone and old parchment, a scent that clung to the back of the throat like a bad memory. Sir Alaric sat at the far end of the long, oak table, his fingers trembling slightly as he ran them over the surface. The wood was worn smooth by centuries of hands, much like the velvet of his own collar, a deep, bruised purple that had once been...

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