The Wistful Grid
The banquet hall smelled of roasted lamb and old stone, a scent that hung in the heavy, humid air like a shroud, while the crystal chandeliers above cast a fractured, prismatic light across the faces of the assembled officers, who sat in rigid rows of mahogany chairs, their polished brass buttons gleaming with a cold, metallic indifference that seemed to drain the warmth from the room itself....
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