The Pale Path
The champagne flutes are trembling in your hands, a subtle, high-pitched vibration that seems to emanate from the crystal itself rather than from the ice that has long since melted in the bucket. You are standing in the center of the great room, a space so cavernous and polished that it feels less like a home and more like a museum exhibit of wealth, where the air is kept at a constant, sterile...
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